In The Grey Twilight
by Heidi Gamgee
Summary: After the Quest, Frodo struggles with his unrequited love for Sam. *slash* F/S and M/P
1. The Free Fair

**In the Grey Twilight**

_After the Quest, Frodo and Sam try to come to terms with their unrequited love. Frodo/Sam and Merry/Pippin._

_All the wishing in the world won't make Tolkien's characters mine. Writing about them won't either._

*

The first glow of morning peeked through the kitchen windows of Bag End, and Samwise Gamgee stood humming softly to himself over a frying pan of scrambled eggs. The kettle whistled and the scones turned golden brown under his appreciative gaze, while a cool steady breeze teased his nostrils with the aroma of fresh strawberry jam and warm bread. Smoothly efficient, Sam took plates in one hand and Bilbo's fine cutlery in the other, carrying soft-as-silk napkins under his arm to the table. As he was setting the places a bright stream of light poured over the windowsill like liquid gold, spilling over Sam's strong shoulders and resting warmly on his hands. 

_Time to pull back the drapes, Sam thought cheerfully. He took a moment to slide the eggs onto each plate, and then tiptoed off to Frodo's bedroom. Pushing on the door, he saw Frodo's dark tousled hair poking out in the expanse of white sheets, making Sam smile as he went to the window. _

"Good morning, Mr. Frodo!" he said and light flashed over the bed. Sam watched his master's maimed hand reach out from under the sheets, grasping futilely at something that wasn't there. Sam bent and touched Frodo's forehead, saying quietly, "Come now, breakfast's awaiting."

A smile teased Frodo's mouth and his eyes fluttered beneath their lids. Sam swore he'd never forget those unusual, extraordinary eyes that seemed to suck in the entire depth of the sky--yet every morning he was almost driven to gasping when they finally snapped open. "Ah...smells good..." Frodo murmured. 

"There you go." Sam playfully yanked the covers back from Frodo's body, and left with laughter on his voice. 

The routine was comforting, something to remind both travellers that peace had, indeed, come, despite uncertainty or nightmares or old pain. Though Samwise felt sunlight and warmth flowing through his very veins ever since he awoke on the Field of Cormallen, he knew Frodo needed a little prodding to take it in. In fact Sam's own energy seemed fathomless, though he never paid it any mind.  He awoke at dawn to prepare breakfast, leaving for the Shire-fields before second breakfast to oversee the planting and growing of the land. On a usual day, that is; today was Mid-year's Day and work of a different sort awaited him. The holiday was generally considered the best celebration in the Shire but this year's Free Fair would be more fantastic than dreams could tell. 

Sam was almost tense with hope.  His chest grew tight when he thought of the last great celebration in the Shire: Bilbo's eleventy-first birthday.  There were a lot of things to remember about that night, but it was the carefree light in Frodo's eyes that he held closest.  He had heard some inkling of mysterious rumour that Gandalf might ride in through the hills and shower them with fireworks and his incurable laughter tonight. Would Frodo laugh with simple mirth as he had before he knew of the Ring? Wanting his master to be happy was so normal for Sam that he didn't acknowledge the wealth of anxiety that lay beneath it.

Shortly Frodo emerged from his room and Sam watched him surreptitiously.  Under the simple joy of life in Bag End there ran an undercurrent of nervousness that penetrated even the most ordinary things. Despite the temptation to set his mind on the promises of the future, Sam knew that where his master was concerned, life was to be taken day by day. This morning, though, his master seemed to be in fine spirits and Sam felt he could almost sigh for his heart's ease. They sat down together and Sam poured out the tea, but when he looked again at Frodo's face he saw it was drawn with confusion.

"Mr. Frodo? Is something the matter?"

"Sam," Frodo chided gently, "you only set two places."

Sam started as if he'd been slapped across the face. "Ninnyhammers! I forgot to wake Rosie! And today's the Party day. What's gotten into me?"

"I'm up," Rosie called from the corridor, and they heard her shuffle quickly into the washroom. 

Sam dropped his fork and tried to put things to rights. He felt a lightning stab of bitterness, the parasitic emotion worming through him where it didn't belong. Complex feelings were frustrating to his pure soul: like a locked door leaving him out in the cold, he couldn't break through them. He couldn't look at Frodo. A hot rise of shame burned his face--ashamed of what? Chewing softly on the inside of his cheek, Sam tried to shrug off a wave of apprehension concerning Rosie, at the same time begrudging her for some harsh and unnecessary remarks she'd made about Mr. Frodo the night before. Surely these troubles were of the normal sort: _Keeping a family is a hard-learned trade, as the Gaffer says--and he's right all the way._

"Merry and Pippin will be here soon, I should think," Frodo said, but his voice was strained.  

Sam contented himself with the reassuring clatter of Bilbo's china. "I reckon it'll be noon, knowing them."

"You look tired, Sam," Frodo said quietly, and took Sam by surprise. His thoughts seemed to dash from his mind, as smoke carried off in the wind.    

"Well, it's you as was stayin' up all night working on your speech for the Fair."

"And I'd ask how you knew that, except I heard you tiptoeing around. Sam...you must know...you don't have to stay up for me..."

Sam had dropped his eyes to the floor, struggling to understand if his protectiveness was wrong, when Rosie appeared in the kitchen. She tapped his shoulder pointedly. "See," she said not without humour, hands on her hips, "Mr. Frodo agrees with me."

"Good morning, Rosie," Sam said, and poured her some tea.

* * * *

It was coming on luncheon and the air was thick with cheer. Frodo sat out on the sun-warmed hill, a book resting closed in his hands, keeping a solitude that knew no name. He knew he should be going down to the tents. At least to look at the dozens of blue-ribbon hopefuls--the pies and preserves and ponies--which he was to aid in judging. Perhaps old Will Whitfoot would be making rounds, filling in the social duties that Frodo was finding more and more difficult to attend to. His office as Deputy Mayor kept him busy but while work was medicine enough for Sam and Aragorn and armour-clad Merry and Pippin, Frodo yearned for peace. He had precious few aims in accepting the position; beyond rebuilding the Shire he had no great plans or interests. And it was certainly not promises of power or control that lured him to take office, as these things now deterred him. There was really only one reason why he'd taken it: because Samwise Gamgee had turned to him, his face glowing with such a smile, somehow still thinking Frodo could be a leader, a hero, a hobbit of action. Frodo found he couldn't let him down.   

He already had, of course. Sam was at ease these days, his brown skin glowing in the sun as he worked the fields. Sometimes Frodo watched him walking home at dusk, bare-chested with a rucksack slung over his shoulder, a glittering sheen of sweat covering him. Sam loved the sun, but Frodo had moments when the sky seemed pale and cold, and his inevitable shiver brought a sad look over Sam's face.  

Frodo clutched the white stone that hung about his neck. His feelings for Sam took on a fever pitch most of the time, whirling in unending confusion and conflict. Sam filled too many roles in Frodo's life, obscuring any solid truth of their relation. How could he describe a friendship that had gone to the very end of the world? How could he name a love that carried the weight of Middle-earth on its shoulders? He had been presumptuous, he thought they'd crossed irrevocably over the line, leaving plain friendship behind in the waters of the River Anduin. How could two people ever separate after such an ordeal? Why did they have to grow used to sleeping alone again, when the close entanglement of their limbs had been natural, accepted, and desired? 

It was too painful to dwell on it; and it was selfish to want more of Sam. After all Sam had done, after everything Sam meant to him, Frodo felt sick knowing that he wanted something else.  They had gone from friends to soulmates without a word, and without a word they returned to a discreet distance; and though the transformation may have been silent, Frodo bore it as a wound worse than the Morgul- stabbing. What Frodo actually wanted, he tried not to imagine. He knew it was unnatural, and perhaps worse; but he'd always known he was different from others. He had learned not to care what anyone else thought of him, but when it was clear that Sam didn't share his feelings he was deeply afraid that Sam might think him abnormal, and be repulsed by him. In that one instant, when Sam unknowingly rejected him, Frodo knew he should go away to Rivendell where Sam wouldn't feel obliged to take care of him. But he had been gripped by desperation, hearing _Rosie first fall from Sam's lips, and he insisted Sam move into Bag End--Rosie and all. The days played on in awkward agony, as he tried not to reach out too much or take too much.  For one thing, Sam was well honoured now and certainly didn't need the charity of a wealthy old hobbit, so it was ridiculous for him to continue his role as servant. _

_Servant. Frodo felt the word slip bitterly in his mouth. What did his Sam think of him, master or comrade or soul-sharer?  _

"I know he's not all right, but you needn't look after him like a maidchild. Let him fend for himself, and then you'll see," Rosie had said last night, thinking Frodo had gone to sleep. 

Shame-faced, Frodo took up his pen and opened his book, his once fair handwriting now almost illegible, _do you know, as I do my Sam, that I could not go on without you? Do you know that if I didn't wake up to your smile, I wouldn't want to wake up at all? You forgot about Rosie this morning and I don't know what I'm supposed to feel. One day, will you forget about me?  _

The soft clatter of hooves and the glare of shields and mail jarred Frodo from thought. He rose and was greeted by two most impressive hobbits on ponies, their emblems bright as they waved enthusiastically. Frodo abandoned his book hastily and stood up, feeling his spirits lift at the sight of his proud and strong cousins. 

"Hey ho, shining knights from afar!" Frodo called out, teasing them. 

They grinned wide and Merry dismounted with a flourish, taking Pippin's hand as the younger hobbit jumped down from his pony.  "Hullo, Frodo!" Pippin cried. 

"Things have been well in Crickhollow, I take it?" 

"Indeed, well! And Hobbiton?"

A fair glint caught his eye, first on Pippin's hand, then on Merry's. After a moment Frodo perceived that they wore small matching rings, and he took Merry's hand to peer at it. He was piecing together a stunned realization while Merry laughed somewhat nervously.  

"Pippin said no one would notice, but I should have known better."

He managed to keep his mouth from falling agape though he faltered, and a thousand thoughts rushed through him then, as a gust of wind through an opened door. _Merry and Pippin...they've had these feelings too... They're in love... He was silent, looking at his friends as an upsurge of joy swelled to diminish the fragments of clawing jealousy. It was a deep yearning to look upon them, and an unspeakable comfort to know that he hadn't been so wrong. They were tall and strong and heroic, but there was youthful humour in their faces and the kind of softness in their eyes that was unmistakable: a bond of love and comfort and caring that was born on the battlefields of Middle-earth and was never broken since. It was right and natural and achingly sweet...  _

"Frodo?" Pippin said. "You're not too surprised, are you? I think we've shocked him, Merry."

"Not at all," Frodo breathed. "And as much as others will act surprised, they shouldn't be either. But when did this happen, pray tell?"

The pair stood close and clasped hands. Warmth sparked again in Frodo's limbs and nestled in his stomach. "O, since forever, like," Pippin offered.

Merry ruffled his hair. "Nay, not forever, not when we were lads." 

"Well not before we met, no. But nigh on forever, I say."

"And...?" Frodo prompted, gesturing to their adorned hands. He wasn't quite able to say it, despite the sentiment his heart held for them. In Frodo's mind rings would forever be frightful things, never symbols of love...   

"The formalities, the rings, that came just this Spring. It was slow work and scary, for it wasn't until the Field of Cormallen, really, that we understood what we had. A shocking big risk it was, when we finally opened our mouths and said something about it. After that it was determination--and stubbornness, and hope, until we knew for sure." Merry seemed to study Frodo's expression as he spoke. 

Frodo steadied himself with a long breath. "It's beautiful, you've been blessed," he said, and he bowed his head and then he moved to embrace his friends. They shared a silent moment before Frodo spoke again.

"I guess you'll be wanting something to eat, and to get settled in your room. Or are you going to ride down to the tents first, and let everyone know you've come? They'll have to do some re-arranging once you've informed them that you're guests of honour."

"Ha!" Pippin shouted, smacking Frodo playfully. "You think we wear mail just to get free meals. But no, we have to protect ourselves. I, for one, have love-struck lasses following me about most of the time!"

"And a few love-struck lads as well, I reckon," Merry laughed, poking him. 

The three set out for Bag End, and Pippin talked happily of his favourite subject (outside food): his coming of age party. As far as Frodo could gather, Merry seemed to be withholding a special sort of present for him. Presently they found Rosie standing out in the garden. 

"Hullo, Mr. Merry and Mr. Pippin," Rosie said politely. "Mr. Frodo, have you seen Sam?"

"No, I suppose he's gone off on Party business."

She nodded, but pursed her lips. "I was wanting to tell him something before he left. I guess I'll have to go find him--though I've got enough to do myself."

"Merry and Pippin will probably run into him shortly, do you want them to bring him a message?"

Rosie seemed strangely ill at ease, shaking her head at once. "No, no, it's naught as to be told like a relay race. I'll find him myself."

Frodo hadn't noticed himself sigh when she left, but soon found Merry's arm about his shoulders. "It must be hard, dear Frodo, not being used to such a household," he said supportively. 

"It sure surprised _us," Pippin muttered. _

Frodo turned, suspicious and confused, dislodging Merry's arm in the process.  "What?"

"I--I mean, well, everyone thought--the Fellowship thought--that you and Sam..." and Pippin was halted by the firm jab of Merry's elbow in his ribs. 

"What are you _saying, Pippin?" Merry hissed. _

"O, can't we talk about it? Why doesn't anybody talk about it?"

"It's none of our business, Pip!"

Frodo got between them, staring wide and intensely. He knew he must look a bit sick, the way his heart was pounding in his chest and his breath tumbled out of control. "What's this about?" 

Pippin squirmed but broke under Frodo's stern look. Merry turned away, putting his hand over his face. "We never meant to pry, that's why we never asked or said anything. But you and Sam seemed so close, we thought you'd just...just live together for the rest of your lives, you know."

So it had been obvious after all...but somewhere along the road, things had gone wrong. He stared at the floor miserably. "We _are living together."_

The reply was almost a whisper. "But _Rosie..." _

"He's _married!" Frodo cried, all pretense lost. "He's done too much, he's cared too much--he lived and walked and breathed for me when I didn't have a single hope left. We're so close it's painful--closer still would be agony."_

Merry turned back to face them, saying in a calm, clear voice, "I think your being still separate is the real agony."

Frodo passed a weary hand through his hair. "But he's _married," he repeated. "There's no hope, there's no sense in speaking of it."  _

"You should tell him," Merry said.

"And ruin everything for him? How can I do that to him? Sam's happy, and that should be enough for me. He loves her."

"No he doesn't," Pippin said plainly. 

He grew frantic. "What? How can you say that?"

"Put your head on it!" Merry cried, trying to break through to him.  "Sam Gamgee's been nothing but proper all his life. His Gaffer raised him stern, you know. I think if he ever had so much as an improper thought, he wouldn't hear it in his own head."

"But that doesn't mean they aren't there--those improper thoughts I mean," Pippin added helpfully. 

Frodo stared out as if watching the ghosts of Bag End drift through the halls, a certain numbness descending over him. "Maybe he should know what goes on in his master's head, but don't you see? I'd scare him, and lose him forever," he whispered.  Then he gathered himself together and escaped to the kitchen. 

He leaned against the kitchen wall, hidden for the moment, his hands clenched in tea towels. He wanted to sink to the floor and let these new thoughts seep through him, until they took on the flavour of his own judgement, but he knew he wouldn't have time for that today.

"Merry! Pippin!" Sam's cheerful voice filled the smial. "How are things in Crickhollow? Have you had tea yet? Where's Rosie?"

"Rosie went out to find you a moment ago," Frodo heard Merry say. 

"Oh. Well, like as not she'll come back. Where's Mr. Frodo? I'll fix some lunch."

*

TBC. Feedback would be greatly appreciated.


	2. Fireworks and Revelations

**In the Grey Twilight**

Gracious thanks to all the reviewers! You're wonderful all of you. I have been rather conscious that this story is not…well…  "action-packed," and needed the encouragement.  I have more to come, and welcome suggestions.

*

Sam beamed as he followed Frodo down the rows of judging tables, pleased that Frodo had asked him to help in something so important. Frodo seemed to think that Sam had a better taste for jam and pies and a better eye for quilts and livestock than his own, and Sam was happy to stay close to him in secret conference over each entry.  Frodo spoke softly, sometimes lifting a bite of pie up to Sam's lips, and Sam felt a quiver of pride. Although Merry and Pippin drew a lot of attention with their soldier-gear and stories, today Frodo and Sam were wearing their elven-cloaks and broaches, which made Sam feel dignified and worthy.  

Sam simply felt _good when Frodo was content, and it was a bit like tending a little fire whose embers were flickering and needed constant care. Sam was happy keeping close to him and pouring forth his energy in an attempt to make his master smile. When Frodo __did smile the result was a wave of heat in Sam's heart, gladdened at their easy companionship and rewarded by the exclusive attention Frodo gave him. Rosie thought Sam cared for Frodo out of obligation only, but she didn't understand. It was frustrating sometimes, because there were so many things Sam felt inadequate to express. __You weren't there, Rosie dear, when I found him in that Tower. And you don't know what that Ring meant, what it did to him, and what he bore in bravery to save the Shire. If you and all the Shire knew the truth... But tales from the South were of no interest in the Shire, no matter how anyone tried to explain their importance. _

His eyes fell away from where Frodo was marking down Sam's choices for Best Pie and searched out Merry and Pippin. For the next few nights the four of them could sit round the hearth with their pipes and remember the days of the War together, and be comforted. Merry and Pippin struck a beautiful presence these days but now Sam thought they seemed happier and closer than ever. He watched as they showed their swords to a small swarm of hobbit-children, smiling, and then Merry began to unclasp Pippin's mail by way of demonstrating to the little hobbits how it worked.

"Sam?" Frodo's voice suddenly broke into his thoughts. "Sam?"

"O, I'm sorry Mr. Frodo. I was just watching Merry and Pippin over there." As he spoke, the hobbit-children all ran off in a great burst, laughing and yelling _Dragons! Dragons and Trolls! They're coming! And with that, Pippin dragged Merry by the hand to the main tent, where an energetic dance was taking place, and they whirled each other around. _

Sam chuckled. "Look at them. You couldn't separate them for promise of gold or jewels or the Moon."  

"Or a pretty lass?" Frodo murmured. 

Sam sucked on his bottom lip thoughtfully. "Maybe not, Mr. Frodo. I don't right know."

Frodo nodded and turned back to the tables. "All these chickens look the same to me, I'm afraid. Which do you like?"  

Still gazing off at the tent, Sam scratched his head. "Maybe them chickens can wait, Mr. Frodo. We can't very well let Merry and Pippin have all the fun, can we?"

"You'd like to join them?" he asked. A slow but sure smile alighted on Frodo's face, as he inclined his head to the mass of dancing hobbits. 

"I think that settles it! Come on, Mr. Frodo!" And with sudden energy he took Frodo's arm and they nearly ran for the tent, their judging-papers left billowing on the grass behind them.   

The music was swift and free, inviting a great deal of jumping and turning. Merry and Pippin cheered when they saw them, and Sam, too excited and delighted to be shy, took a firm hold of his master's hands and swung him in circles. Frodo's face lit up with surprise and joy, and soon he was pulling Sam about. Hands on each other's waists now, they swirled so fast the world was a blur, nearly crashing against each other as dizziness shook them, but they could only laugh. Sam thought that for a moment his master looked younger, somehow, and then he knew why: he was remembering Bilbo's birthday, of course.  But maybe Frodo really did look younger; he hadn't laughed so beautifully in such a long time...

The song broke to a stop and Frodo fell, panting, against Sam's chest. "Wonderful!" he gasped and Sam couldn't help but hug him--and by the time the music started again he had lifted Frodo off his feet in a bear hug and was swinging him around.   

"Put me down before you drop me!" Frodo cried, exhilarated. 

Rather out of breath, Sam complied. Having set his master on his feet again he reached out to smooth down his hair. 

"I could do with something to drink, Sam."

Mr. Frodo looked winded, but his face was flushed with colour as if kissed by a rose and they stood so close Sam could feel his master's heart pounding. 

"Sure thing. Are you tired?"

Frodo smiled deeply. "Certainly not. I intend to tire _you out."_

* * * *

The afternoon was chased away and evening settled on the land. It was coming on time for the feast, and Frodo felt an easy contentment fill him like warm cider, sweet and comforting as he watched Sam's joyful face. Together they walked through the rows of tables in the pavilion and passed Rosie who was already seated. 

"Hullo Sam," she said prettily, clearly waiting for him to sit down.  

"Rose! A right fine Fair this is!" Frodo watched in disbelief as Sam gave her a small kiss, a pat on the shoulder, and moved aside as if to continue walking with his master. They were heading for Merry and Pippin's table, where the two young hobbits were marvelling over the great banquet. Cheerfully they raised their mugs and drank together--_To the end of darkness! and the safety of the Shire!--while Pippin speared an apple with his little sword and Merry rolled his eyes. _

But Rosie was fast behind them, hands raised in frustration. "Sam, _wait." They stopped and she planted herself immovably before her husband. "I've been wanting to talk to you all day. It's not getting any less important." _

"I'm sorry, Rose dear, 'tis been a busy day for sure. What's the matter?"

At that moment a high-pitched, singing _crack shot over the fairgrounds, and every curly head in sight snapped up to look for its origin. From away on a hill, a light burst forth like so many doves suddenly released from a cage, swelling upwards in a spontaneous dance. There was a great cheer as the lights changed to sparkling red butterflies, scattering in all directions and flying down among the trees and tents. A sweet scent and soft noise followed each tiny light as it finally glimmered out to stardust.   _

There was still some sunlight from under the horizon, and Frodo stared in wonder at the white form standing upon the hill, a white horse motionless nearby. 

"Gandalf!" Frodo cried and grabbed Sam's hand in his astonishment. They bolted off together, running through the grass like children, and Sam gave a laugh for the merriment. Up the hill they climbed and Frodo would have landed in a heap at Gandalf's feet if the wizard had not caught him. Gandalf's voice was clear and cool as river-water. 

"Look here, young Frodo," Gandalf said, feigning a sterness that could not touch his eyes, "I'm on secret business and would have my presence here remain unnoticed."

"Well you shouldn't have sent up that flare!" Frodo countered, and it was almost in the manner of their old times. Neither could contain their laughter. "Gandalf! O, I wish you had come sooner."    

"Few would be glad to see my face here, I think. It is best that I watch the merry-making from afar. I had nearly forgotten how hobbits' light-heartedness is a joy to all those around." Gandalf set his hands on Frodo's shoulders and looked long into his face. "I should hope it eases your heart as well."  

Frodo smiled gently. "Have you heard from the King?"

"Yes, I saw him lately, though not for too long. But he bade me bring tidings of your well-being. He asked after you as well, Samwise."  

"There's naught that could be better," Sam said. "The Shire's never seen such a harvest, and I've never eaten so many strawberries!"

Gandalf reached out to put a hand on Sam's head, almost in the manner of a blessing. "I shall tell the King. Frodo, have you a message for him?" 

"Sam's report is well enough. How long will you stay, Gandalf?"

"Just long enough to send my lights into the sky, dear boy. I have work to do; wizardry awaits. But take heart, Frodo, for we shall not be forever parted. I have Seen it."

"I know," Frodo said in a small voice. He hugged Gandalf fiercely, wanting to ask what else he had Seen. Did Gandalf glimpse his future? And Sam's?

"What of those imps, Meriadoc and Peregrin?" Gandalf asked. 

Frodo shifted, suddenly uncomfortable. 

"Same as ever," Sam put in helpfully. 

Frodo bowed his head to the wildflowers. There was no reason to hide it; there was nothing wrong... "They've made a commitment," Frodo said quietly. "A commitment to each other. They exchanged rings. I don't know what to call it. I suppose they're married."  

The wind rose around them and rustled the tall grass. Gandalf's hair billowed slightly and his face looked very serene. "Ah," he said, and gave forth a soft chuckle like a bell. "The King will be glad, I think." 

Sam was standing very still, blinking. "Married, you say?" he asked at length. 

Gathering courage from a deep well of frustration, Frodo met his friend's eyes. Before he even knew what he was saying, the words were out: "Yes, married. They made a commitment to each other, because they're in love." 

Sam swallowed and finally nodded faintly, but did not speak. 

Tension thickened in the air but it did not appear to affect Gandalf. "A cause for celebration, indeed. And if I'm correct, you're missing the banquet. You, Samwise, are being beckoned."

Sam whirled around and saw Rosie standing stock-still where he'd left her. "Goodness! I'd best be off, Mr. Gandalf! Farewell, farewell!" And he went, nearly tumbling headfirst down the hill. His companions watched after him for a moment. 

"Have you been well, Frodo?" 

"It's like a never ending sunset for me." He sighed, tearing his anxious eyes away from Sam's back. "Gandalf...I've been wanting something I can't have. Tell me...what do you think he feels for me?"

There was a knowing pause as Gandalf knelt before him. "I see how it troubles you, dear Frodo. But my answer means little. Only _his answer will satisfy you."_

"I don't think he feels for me what I feel for him," Frodo whispered. "I realized it when we got back. But...Merry and Pippin put thoughts into my head, and stirred up things that should have remained quiet and hidden." 

"All things come to pass for a reason. I _do think, however, that you have kept silent too long. Talk to him, and ease your heart."_

Frodo turned again to watch Sam tramping across the field. "Perhaps you're right, though I fear my words may come to ill. Goodbye, Gandalf." 

"Farewell, Frodo. Live in peace." The wizard kissed him, absently touching the white stone hanging from Frodo's neck. "Would it were so simple to put hope and comfort in a stone, that despair might forever be thwarted."

Their eyes met in some understanding and then Frodo broke away, suddenly driven to run. Sam looked red and gold in the deepening shadows at the bottom of the hill, and Frodo's blood pulsed in his veins; he was charging now, all caution abandoned. Dew splashed onto his feet and he reached to catch Sam by the shoulder. 

"_Sam," he said, as if he were the only thing in the world. Sam looked back at him intensely. Was there any difference between these soul-searching gazes he poured over Frodo sometimes, and the good-morning kisses he gave Rosie?  _

"I missed Gandalf too," Sam replied softly. 

Frodo opened his mouth, breathing hard and wanting to steal away this moment forever, wanting to turn to Sam and tell him what lay in his heart. But Rosie was already approaching, only a few feet away, and she snatched him by the arm. Then Sam was gone, disappeared almost as if he'd slipped on the Ring; _he had lost him... Frodo saw everything in slow motion. Under lantern-light and ribbons, Rosie took Sam's hands in hers. A crowd began to gather, and Frodo edged away as if he might hide himself. Finally, Rosie pulled Sam close and said something into his ear. Sam blinked. _

"Really?" he said. Rosie nodded. Everyone was silent. 

"We're having a baby!" Sam cried, tears glittering in his eyes. "O Rose me dear!"

Frodo shut his eyes. The world tossed him up and he was crashing down, knocked flat and winded, and it was all he could do not to cry out, or whisper the desperate _no that screamed in his throat.  A terrible numbness was fast setting in as Merry and Pippin came to his side; a bitterly cold and anguished resentment. Roughly he pushed away their arms and refused their sympathy, stumbling backward as if he might break into a run. "Go on, have a drink and sing a song for him," he mumbled. "He's waiting."_

"Frodo--" they kept saying, still trying to offer their arms in comfort.

"Please. Go be with him, have a drink, I beg you. I'll have a bit of a walk and come by later." 

"_Wait," Pippin insisted. "It's for naught! It doesn't mean anything, he doesn't love her--"_

Frodo shook his head violently, his eyes wet. "Don't. Don't say it. Didn't you see his face? O, _look at him..." And he turned away._

*

TBC. Feedback would be greatly appreciated.


	3. Finding Peace

**In the Grey Twilight**

Once again, thank you for the reviews. I'm trying to make this a _believable slash story that engages the canon and captures the characters for what they truly are. Comments and suggestions to that effect are especially helpful._

Inkstain, your thoughtful comments were very valuable to me--I wrote you an e-mail in response, but the address on your author page doesn't work. It's always nice to touch base with a like-minded author!

And Trilliah, I hope you don't mind all the sadness. I tend to think the most beautiful things in the world are layered in sadness...so there's more to come, but I try to strike a balance too.  

*

Sam kissed Rosie softly and then let her go, wiping his eyes on his sleeve and clapping Merry and Pippin on their backs. "Where's Mr. Frodo gone?"

"He's only taking a walk," Merry said. "He'll be back soon."

Rosie took his hand, pulling him toward the tent. "Come, Sam, they're giving us a toast!"

There was cheering and much ale to be had, and Sam was drawn into the crowd while his flickering thoughts of Frodo remained like fireflies in the silhouetted sky. A dance broke out around them and they joined in, Sam holding Rosie very gently about her waist, turning, moving, while everyone laughed and sang. So full of joy these days were, like a clear vessel with pure light shining through. But that was what he felt when he looked at Mr. Frodo. How could Frodo's eyes bring Sam so much bright joy, when the shadows lay seemingly immovable on his master's brave spirit? Where was he, why did he leave?  

"Excuse me, son, but I reckon as I ought to have a dance with the young mother," Farmer Cotton said, kissing Rosie's hand. 

Sam smiled, blushing a little at Rosie's father. "Well sure thing sir!" But he hesitated and touched Rosie's belly softly. "Now take care of that, and don't dance too fast or too long, like."  

The music started up again and Sam weaved through the crowd, accepting congratulations as he peered beyond the tent. He was almost running, feeling something awful settle in the pit of his stomach. He grabbed young Tom Cotton's arm. "Have you seen Mr. Frodo hereabouts?" 

Tom shook his head and Sam was off; he stopped short when he caught sight of his master standing by one of the merchant carts.   

He was standing still and pale as death, one hand slowly rising as if pulled by an invisible force, a tremor running through it. Sam was at his side in a heartbeat but was almost afraid to touch him. His master's eyes were very dark and wide; there was sweat on his brow.  Before him was a display of strange shiny black rocks, and the peddler was speaking almost hypnotically:

"...'tis black volcanic glass, a fine thing indeed, and rare too. For it has been traded from the South, and there is a tale of yonder parts, of a mighty, dark mountain--Mount Doom, they call it--that by some magic split apart, shaking to the very earth in flame and flowing lava.  And that's what this rock is, sir, the remains of that faraway Mount Doom." 

Sam gave a gasp of shock, recoiling as if burned, but Frodo was reaching out to touch the compelling surface of the glittering stone. Sam got hold of him and pulled him roughly away. He couldn't give a reason, but he knew inside that he must not let his master even brush his fair fingertips on that terrible thing. Not caring about onlookers, Sam brought him to the Green Dragon and shook him, trying to break the spell that had settled over his face. 

"Mr. Frodo? Here now! You've got your speech to make soon!" 

Slowly the darkness drained from his eyes, and Frodo clasped two strong hands on Sam's forearms. He grew insistent. "Do you suppose there's a bit of It, melted and hidden, in all those rocks?" 

Sam's chest felt tight and a cold shiver overtook him. He knew all too well what Frodo meant. "No," he said firmly, despite his uncertainty. "It's gone. It's gone."

The spell passed as swift-moving clouds, and after a moment Frodo let go and seemed himself again. "Yes, of course," he breathed. "I'm sorry, Sam, I have to go prepare...my speech, you know..." 

Sam nodded dumbly.

"And...congratulations, Sam." He exhaled heavily, as if pushing his very soul out of his lungs. "I do mean it. I couldn't have wished for anything better. It's wonderful."

* * * *

He climbed onto the podium slowly, his stomach churning, clutching a bit of paper to his chest. In his troubled script he'd wrote stilted phrases...well-wishing and promises for the future, as if he were already planning for next year's Fair; which was a lie. Merry and Pippin were watching him from below with concern but he couldn't look at them. He stared instead at the horizon, feeling a sharpness in the air: a dying-down eternity, a forever-sunset; a breath never fully exhaled. And he was thinking of the Sea. He could lose himself in the steady noise, as a companion that would never forsake him. _Like Sam... He needed forgetfulness, and numbness; a Sea without memory, without time, without beginning or ending.     _

Paper crumpled in his fist, and all his careful words were cast aside. Maybe once he thought he could fill himself with ordinary cares and ordinary duties, but it was folly. He was empty: a seed-husk in the desert.  

"We've all worked hard to make this the Fair of all Fairs," Frodo began, and was greeted by boisterous applause.

He forced his eyes down at the faces of his friends and found breathing difficult. He swallowed a few times before he continued. "We've much to celebrate. We've won the Shire..." he trailed off and the crowd took this as a reason for more cheering. 

"And there's more party to be had, as we're filling up at the corners--so I'll keep this short." The hobbits cheered loudest at this. "But a few more words, if you please. My part is done. I've been honoured to fill such a celebrated job as old Will Whitfoot's, but tonight...I...I hereby resign my office as mayor."

He stepped down and hobbits stumbled out of his way, though already his friends were coming for him.  It was done. He ignored the whispers and murmurs that began to seep out of the shocked silence, and soon felt Sam's hesitant hand brushing on his arm. Frodo kept his eyes up into the distance, but he knew Sam signalled Merry and Pippin to stay behind, and Sam was strong and determined beside him, sheltering him from the all-too-audible barbs that floated through the air:

"--that Baggins is cracked--"

"--he was always a queer one, but there's something wrong with him besides--" 

Samwise Gamgee's hands clenched hard and his arms stiffened as if to fend off accusations as they walked on, and when they reached the gate outside Bag End Frodo found himself enfolded in Sam's embrace. Sam pulled him into a protective hug, saying into his ear, "Let's go watch the fireworks from out in the field." 

Frodo looked into his face, overwhelmed by gratitude and fierce yearning. It was painful in this moment, seeing Sam's devotion proved so simply; Sam offered himself endlessly and yet Frodo could not take what he truly wanted. _Yes, we'll go up yonder and watch the fireworks. Yes, come as the tides and pool around me with your care. But Samwise Gamgee, you're mine no longer--once and for all, I can lay no claim to you._

* * * *

They set out softly and settled against some bales of hay, far enough from the fairgrounds that the noise was a shapeless din like crickets chirping. They were alone and for a long time silent.  Sam felt uneasy, sitting with a head full of shattered questions that pressed him sharply, yet he could not make himself voice them. So it was Frodo who spoke first, a long sigh breaking the twilight quiet.  

"What are your plans, Sam? I mean, do you ever think about your life?"

"I have a mind to my duties, Mr. Frodo. And a big family I'm sure to have...that's my place. The Gaffer set Rosie out for me and your Mr. Bilbo set the Red Book out for you."

Frodo raised his eyebrows. "Hamfast 'set Rosie out' for you?"

"Well--" and Sam blushed, "it weren't no formal betrothal, as the Gaffer didn't hold with that. He said a lad should know for himself where to find a family, if you take my meaning. But I never gave it much thought until I came of age. At my party--maybe you remember, begging my pardon--he took me aside and sat me down and we had a pipeful of some right fine leaf. The Gaffer gives as much advice as he does smoke, and this time I got a double helping. Well, he says to me, is there any maid I've got my eye on? And I shake my head, and he leans in close like he's got a secret treasure in his hands. Says there's a lass who has her eye on me, and all's I have to do is lift my head out of the dirt if I have a mind to courting." 

Sam cast a quick look at Frodo, suddenly realizing he'd been drawing out a long tale and afraid of boring his master. Seeing Frodo patiently waiting for him to continue, he said softly, "But I never much cared for courting. My heart wasn't in it. A time passed and the Gaffer pressed me hard for being such a fool. He talked to Farmer Cotton, like as not, and everyone was waiting on me, seemingly..." Sam paused and ran his hands through the grass, feeling awkward. Again he searched out Frodo's eyes, and found gentle encouragement there. He cleared his throat. "Hamson and Halfred and May all had little ones. I soon saw what a half-wit I was--living up to my namesake, if you follow me. So before we left I was going to..." Sam swallowed and shrugged. "But it had to wait, and things took care of themselves when we got back."

"And now you'll have a child as sweet as you could want," Frodo said kindly, ducking his head to try to catch Sam's downcast eyes.   
"Yes, there's naught truer than that." The soft-spoken words barely carried on the perfumed air, and Sam wondered what this feeling was that seemed to suffocate him, as if he couldn't exhale. Something was imprisoned inside him, hot and thick like the molten lava of Mount Doom...frightened, he sat up straight and wondered for the first time where Rosie was. It never occurred to him to tell her where he'd be, as the fireworks gilded the sky and music laughed through the trees.             

"Sam? Is something wrong?"

Frodo's voice caught him, holding him safely in the present moment. As he fought back the volcanic upheaval in his chest, he felt Frodo's cool white hand on his arm, and something fluttered inside him like great soft wings--he was perilously close to being swept away. To where? And at that moment, Frodo's wide blue eyes reminded him of the last patch of clear sky, far on the horizon of the destruction of the world. 

"I've gotten almost all my wishes. As the Gaffer would say, I had a handful of right good seeds, blooming into first-place flowers. And--well, I'm grateful, sure as the sun rises, but--it's not fair."

Frodo squeezed his arm very tightly. "What do you mean?" he whispered.

"_It's not fair. What about __your wishes? Mr. Frodo...I know you're not happy."_

It was as if some silent taboo were broken; despite how hard Frodo fought through his days, and how diligently Sam looked after him, they had tried to pretend that all was well and that happiness had been gifted instantly with the coming of Peace. They both burst into speech: 

"No, no, that's not true. You make me happier than--"

"I'd give everything up to see you--"

And they were shocked to silence by the biggest, brightest, loudest firecracker known to wizards. They hadn't even seen it coming, and now tiny silver jewels fell from the sky like rain, landing on their hair and cloaks and the soft grass. Sam swallowed hard, his heart pounding strangely in his chest--and not from surprise, either. No, this was something else: as if he'd been tossed off a cliff, as if he were falling out of a tree, the wind buzzing in his ears and panic gripping his chest and a cry trying to burst forth from his mouth. He needed to scream, but it wasn't just sound or volume: _there was something he needed to say..._

"I have something for you," Frodo murmured.

Sam felt his heart flip. "I've got something for you, too."

Frodo exhaled slowly and drew something out of his pocket. Sam watched breathlessly as Frodo extended his maimed hand, placing a small cool object into his palm. Frodo's hand stayed put for a moment, and Sam's heart knocked against his ribs: Sam gave Frodo's hand a gentle squeeze, then held it firmly, the object pressing between their palms. Time held its breath: the fireworks stalled, floating up and dropping down as lazily as feathers in the breeze. Finally Frodo stirred, squeezing softly and opening his hand. Sam looked down and saw a shining silver timepiece, the finest thing he'd ever laid eyes upon. He found his jaw would not work to express his gratitude and protest against the dearness of such a present; nor would his hands keep steady enough to open it. Smiling, Frodo's slender fingers worked the tiny clasp, and it popped open. The clock-face was opal and the delicate hands were gold--such small intricate work! It must have been an Elven-craft gifted to Bilbo some age ago. But Sam's eyes lingered on the inscription, which, obviously, was new. 

_May your road go ever on and on,_

_through__ the twilight Peace;_

_May you lie safe in the arms of Love_

_as__ your arms saved me, and carried me home._

Hot tears blinded him and stole his breath. "You didn't ought to," he stammered in a whisper. 

"Shhh," Frodo hushed him urgently. "It's just a _thing. It's not what I'd give you, if I were the Lady and could grant wishes." _

Sam nodded and wiped his eyes. He revealed a small bundle wrapped in cloth, and holding it out he said, "Then I will make a wish in the name of the Lady." He closed his eyes and wanted to think of something special, but found his mind was stuttering. Something was still clawing at the back of his throat, trying to get out... He swallowed hard, almost choking on the mass of unnamed secrets and uncharted emotion. _May you lie safe in the arms of Love...  _

His hands were trembling when he untied the bundle and presented to Frodo a queer looking fountain pen. "I made it special," Sam explained. "The grip is soft and a little ways bigger than ordinary, see. I know you want your book to be perfect, and I was hoping to make things easier for your poor hand." 

Frodo tried it out, his mouth falling open with a soft sound, almost a surrender. The remaining fingers of his right hand clasped firmly and moved the pen fluidly. "I thought I'd just have to learn," he said with emotion thickening his voice. He kept his eyes down, watching his hand form his signature in the air. "Thank you, Sam."

Sam knew he was shy about his crippled hand; he never mentioned it, almost as though he were ashamed of it. Had Sam intruded, somehow?  He didn't know what to say and his hands twisted his cloak nervously. 

"This book seems to eat at me, Sam," Frodo said after a time. "I must write it, but it's a painfully slow business. As much as the memories push to get out, something holds them from me. And I've been wondering if anyone other than myself will be able to read it. At least I can stop worrying about that." He smiled a bit, an expression of both pain and happiness. "How is it you always know how to help?" 

"I don't, not enough," Sam said gruffly under his breath. "Well, I guess as you'll have a lot more time for writing now."

"Yes."

Sam chewed on his lip and turned his attention back to the sky-spectacle. He wanted to ask him why, why was he giving up on a job so suited to him? But maybe the answer was obvious. His master had done enough already. He had done the only thing that mattered, he had done all there was to do. Being Mayor was just a charade after all that, it was just an expense of time. 

"Folks here don't understand right. They ought to sing thanks to you, elsewise there'd be no Shire, no Fair to speak of. They don't honour you."

"You do. I don't care what the others say."

They shared a look, and then Frodo closed his eyes, tilting his head back to the sky to let the breeze float over his face. He looked peaceful and beautiful, Sam thought, battling an anxious feeling. Sam thought hard over what he ought to do, and then he set his jaw with determination. 

"Come here and have a rest," Sam said, holding his cloak out. Frodo seemed to think on it, then wriggled over and settled against Sam's chest with a yawn.  Sam tucked his cloak around him and held him close in his arms, leaning his head back against the warm hay. He thought Frodo slept instantly, and soon he drifted too. 

And that was how Rosie found them, hours later, among the deserted tents and bits of discarded ribbon and paper. The Free Fair was over and everyone left the mess for the morning, off in search of much-needed sleep. Rosie shook her head and sighed, going home to the darkness of Bag End alone.  

*

TBC. Feedback is greatly appreciated. The next chapter may take some time…I'm doing some thinking, soul-searching, all that jazz. ^_^


	4. Shadow and flame

**In the Grey Twilight**

Three cheers for the reviewers! I'm glad you're enjoying this. And I want to let you know..._hope remains. Even though it doesn't look like it. ^_^_

*

Sam didn't see much of Merry and Pippin during the next week; he was out late every evening and as disciplined as the two hobbit-soldiers might have become, they could never seem to make it to breakfast. He spent most of his home time making sure that Frodo didn't get too lost in his writing, and also there was now the matter of preparing for the baby.  But one day a fast turn of weather brought him home earlier than usual. 

Sam came home soaked as a summer storm blew in, already beating angrily against the windows when he reached the smial door. He ducked in and took off his drenched cloak, dripping onto the floor. Then he went to the sitting-room to light a fire and drive the dampness out. He toasted his wet feet for a moment before lighting candles through the darkened hallways and entered the kitchen, where he had a mind to get some tea going. There was a bit of cornbread on the table that he munched absently while the kettle whistled. He took up a tray, steeped strong tea and laid a few biscuits out with fresh butter and honey, adding strawberries and cream on impulse. Then he bustled to Frodo's study, where the door stood slightly open. 

Frodo sat at his desk, but his head was propped up on his hands and he was watching the water pour down the window-pane. Sam called to him softly. 

"Here, eat up Mr. Frodo. It's a right fine storm out there, and I find it's nice to have something warm in the belly, you know, against the cold and the wet. My but it's dark in here! Let me get some light going, elsewise you'll be blinded from your writing."

Frodo only turned and seemed to sigh as Sam busied about the room. When he'd finished with the candles, Sam pulled up a little stool next to the desk and sat upon it, setting a cup of tea in his lap and munching a strawberry. Sam smiled brightly and Frodo gave in, as if waking from a dark sleep. He took a biscuit and ate it, obviously realizing his own hunger for the first time. 

"Rosie went to visit her parents," Frodo reported. "When she left she said she'd be back after dinner."

"With the storm maybe she'll stay the night there. What have Merry and Pippin been up to?"

"Storytelling at the Green Dragon I think. They're home now and probably planning to raid the pantry." He shivered as thunder rolled distantly and sipped his tea. 

"Why don't I draw you a hot bath? I'll make up some supper and then we can have our pipes, all cozy enough. I think you've written enough today and you look tired."

Sam searched Frodo's face and was relieved when his master's eyes grew soft and warm again. Frodo nodded and smiled, and whatever shadows had crossed his mind seemed to disappear. "All right, Sam. But what about you? You haven't even changed--you're damp. I can't let you catch a cold."

Sam ran a hand through his sodden curls and shrugged. "I'll towel off a bit while I'm getting the tub ready for you."

"You'll take a hot bath first, Samwise Gamgee! You should think of yourself once in a while."

Sam did as he was told, and soon he was sitting before the fire listening to soft splashes from the washroom. Eventually his mind wandered to thoughts of supper, and he thought a bit of stew would go well on a night such as this. He rummaged in the kitchen and after setting a pot of water to boil, he decided to see what Merry and Pippin had to say about the matter. 

The two younger hobbits were staying in the best guest room the smial had to offer. Frodo had long since taken up Bilbo's old room, and Sam and Rosie had the room which was once Frodo's. It was certainly nothing like the old days Sam was fond of remembering. Absently he thought again about the coming baby. Frodo would be as great an uncle as Bilbo had been, for sure. Sam smiled to think of the stories his master would tell. Frodo had seemed to want a big family to fill the smial; maybe lots of little ones running around would be good for his spirits. 

Sam knocked on Merry and Pippin's door, and since his mind was running like the Brandywine, he simply walked right in. 

The room was dark but for the burnished light of flickering candles. Lightning invaded in blinding flashes, obscuring rather than revealing; and it was _warm in here, though the fire was dying down to embers. The bed stood before him, dark cherry wood and laden with white sheets that looked grey and yellow in the dimness--colours shifting as the sheets __moved, for beneath them two hobbits lay entwined, two curly heads pressed close and the noise of breathing filled the air--_

Sam was frozen in shock, watching as a hand emerged from under the sheets and reached out and grasped the back of his partner's head. There was more moving, and there in the candlelight Sam could see the faces of his friends: mouths open, locking together in an instant as they kissed--_they were kissing--and soft noises issued forth like the rain. Hands clawed in each other's hair as if they were drowning, as if terrified to let go._

"_Merry," Pippin's hoarse voice pleaded, and Sam thought they'd finally seen him. He stumbled, hands scrambling for the door.    _

"I'm sorry," he stammered, nearly slamming the door behind him. He felt as if he were tumbling somersault-style down a long hill as he fled to the sanctuary of his own room. His mind churned fruitlessly and he sat down in front of the fireplace, on the floor, hands on his knees. But his face was burning and the warmth of the fire was uncomfortable on his skin, so he stood again and began to pace the length of the floor. 

"Well Sam Gamgee, it's best to let it be," he said to himself, the Gaffer's homegrown wisdom running through his head. "Ain't none of my business, no how."

He knew what it meant for lads to be in love, of course; not that it happened often or was much talked about. And it didn't bother him, though in truth he didn't give it much thought. He knew the touch of a friend could be very dear, when all you wanted to do was to protect him and hold him and comfort him for eternity. 

Walking back and forth under the assault of lightning from the window, Sam's memory flashed to a dark night on Mount Doom when his master was cold and shivering, and he had naught to warm Frodo but his own limbs. The image was so vivid he could all but taste it, like the taste in his mouth of good earth as he tilled it, but its suddenness shook him and left him confused. 

Merry and Pippin. _They were kissing... _

He had halted motionless in the shadows when a knock came softly at the doorframe, and Merry appeared before him. He was wearing a bathrobe and his hair was wet. 

"Are you all right, Sam?"

Sam couldn't think of anything to say and restlessly tried to escape, heading towards the gold  tunnel of light that was the corridor. "I've got water boiling for some stew," he mumbled. 

"It can wait. Please, Sam, don't be upset. Didn't Frodo tell you...?"

Head bowed, Sam shrugged helplessly. "He said you were married. He said you were in love."

"Aye, that's right." Merry looked into Sam's face, his eyes brave and proud. "Can you understand?"

Sam drew himself together, even chanced to meet Merry's gaze squarely. Why did his stomach flutter so?  "I don't think it's wrong. There isn't nothing wrong about loving someone."

"We got so close, Sam," Merry said simply. "We didn't know where friendship was supposed to leave off, when it seemed natural to let it keep going. One day we realized we didn't want to have limits, or locked doors between us, and then we knew we loved each other."

Sam was struck by the same feeling he got when walking home in the day's last moment of fierce light, seeing his fields stretched out forever all around him, completely unbounded. _That's what it must be like for them, Sam thought. _

"I'd say you're lucky," Sam dared. "But Rosie won't take to it none. Already she'd been saying as Bag End isn't a proper hole for a child to grow up in. She's not being fair to Mr. Frodo, but it's not her fault. She doesn't understand about the War."

"Would you ever move? What about Bilbo's Smaug vintage? I imagine he gave you enough to be comfortable, in proper hobbit-style."

"I'm not one like as to have much to my name," Sam shrugged, "so keeping it around felt mighty queer. Now Rosie, she had her eye on rings for her and for me--something plain but pretty, mind--and I remembered Mr. Bilbo saying as the gold could be handy if I got married, so it seemed the right thing to do." He paused for a moment, trying to hear if Frodo was still in the bath. "But I could never leave Bag End and Mr. Frodo. He needs looking-after." 

Merry looked thoughtful. "Everyone would keep an eye on him. You're not really in his service anymore, Sam, you've found your own life."

"I wouldn't leave Mr. Frodo," he repeated slowly. His heart was pounding again. "How could I do that? He's my friend, and my master--"

"He's been asking you to quit calling him Mr. Frodo for ages now. If you really thought he was your master, you'd obey quick enough."

"Well maybe he's not!" Sam cried. "But he was Mr. Frodo when we were lads, and he was Mr. Frodo when he came of age, and he was Mr. Frodo in Rivendell and he was Mr. Frodo in Mordor. And he's Mr. Frodo now, if only because I don't like to think the Quest changed him so much as that." 

Sam found himself surprisingly near tears. Biting his lip he turned away, but Merry stopped him from bolting. 

"Sam! Don't be upset. You're right. Frodo wouldn't want you to leave anyway--we all know he'd be lost without you. Just listen. Pippin and I care about Frodo, but we care about you too and we want you to be happy. So if you're staying just for his sake--"

Sam wiped his eyes a bit savagely. "I'm not. And I'm happy so long as Mr. Frodo is." 

"Yes, that's what I thought," Merry sighed. 

Another soft knock and a swish of robes and a padding of feet came as Pippin poked his head into the room. "Hi, is everything all right?" 

"I was just going to make supper," Sam said shortly. He didn't know why he felt so strange, but when he moved to pass Pippin he saw worry in the younger hobbit's eyes and he knew he ought to say something. "I never did give you my congratulations," he offered clumsily. "I guess some hobbits are just right for each other and there's no stopping it." 

This made Pippin smile. "I tell you, I've some dreadful memories of trying to get him alone and pull him behind haystacks when I was just a teenager. You know? Just looking all the time, not even old enough to know what the feelings meant."

Sam blushed a little and gave a half-shrug while Merry shot Pippin a queer look. Then he made his way to the kitchen and wondered if Frodo was out of the tub yet. They'd have supper and pipes and a fire, and drive away the rain. They used to have songs for nights such as this. And if he couldn't persuade Mr. Frodo to sing them, as he had before the War, then Sam would sing them for him. It was a small thing but it might keep his spirit warm. 

* * * *

Summer passed to autumn, but it was cold, too cold for the newborn October. Indeed this was a different kind of cold, as if it started from inside and began to freeze within. And there was darkness, like the dark, deep waters where Frodo's parents drowned so long ago.  Darkness like the cold filthy mires of the Dead Marshes; darkness like the sunless day. A cave. A lair... Such a heavy weight bowed his back and twisted his shoulders. Then there was a circle of stones and black shadows whipped around him with gleaming fell swords. And with that came pain, piercing terrible icy pain...  

Frodo struggled against the shadows but he was finding his left arm almost useless. He was being dragged down, unable to fight; the Eye peered down and fixed him in its deadly glare; cold slimey boney fingers scratched his chest, seeking the Ring; all would fall to ill, all would be lost. 

But then softness touched his face and with a small cry he sought it out, clinging to this merciful and soothing sensation just as a fair scent caught his nostrils. _Lavender...a scent of home and safety...nothing as could be found in the foul Black Land... Warmth enveloped him all at once. Sweet warmth drifted all the way up to his neck, slowly killing the frozen pain in his shoulder.  _

_"Why does he take on so, Sam?"___

_"He's waking up...."_

He blinked and tried to clear the dark cloud from his vision, and slowly yellow candlelight streamed in. A comforting hand passed over his head again and again, gently bringing him back to safety. Frodo opened his eyes and looked up to see Sam's concerned face close to his. He tried to move and realized he was in the bathtub, full of hot fragrant water. It was October sixth. 

"Sam," he murmured. 

"I'm right here, Mr. Frodo. You were awful cold just now and you wouldn't wake up. How do you feel?" 

"Better," Frodo said hoarsely, though he was not certain it was true. 

"Just like in March," Rosie said thoughtfully, and Frodo suddenly saw her standing behind her husband. "I'll put on some tea," she murmured and left. 

Frodo lay in the water, not ready to move, but he avoided Sam's anxious gaze. Sam shouldn't have to see him like this. His eyes searched out the window, but it was dark and comfortless outside. A deep night where things seemed to move in the shadows; and _eyes, like lanterns…muttering, choking, __gollum… He wished Sam would close the drapes. He could almost hear the keening now, that shrill cry he knew he would never forget. And looking down: his face reflected in the water, dark from the window, flickering in and out with the cold shimmer of the candle. His own dead face with a tricksy light at the bottom of a mire. His shiver grew to a shudder.  _

Sam lay a heated cloth over the scar on his master's shoulder, then gently poured bathwater from his cupped hands through Frodo's hair. Frodo could not keep his right hand from fluttering at his chest, seeking what was not there. Without a moment's thought, Sam settled Frodo's neck-chain with the white stone over his master's head. Frodo's fingers closed around the gem and were at once quiescent. 

"Don't worry over me," Frodo said. "It is just this emptiness..." Already the steaming water was beginning to feel cold. 

"Hush now." 

_Sam. His strong golden arms clasped around Frodo's chest, securely, protectively, and lifted him out of the tub. Cold air stabbed his flesh and water dripped from his hair down to the floor. Sam whispered something soft to him and wrapped him up in a big towel. His hands rubbed him down through the cloth, drying him and warming him and soothing his shoulder, and Frodo sighed. It felt too good. Momentarily the dark mist evaporated before his eyes, and both of his hands clutched Sam's arms. _

"You've done too much," he whispered, battered by guilt and shame and his ungrateful longing for more. 

The reply was simple, plain, a bruised honesty. "I'll never want to quit caring after you. I can't _care too much, as like I can take on too much sun." _

And then Sam was holding him, gently and lovingly, and he felt a flush of heat wash through his body. Sam's hands drifted in slow circles over his back, causing Frodo's thoughts to stop short and his knees to weaken but the pain in his shoulder melted away. Why did Sam care so much, when he had his own life and his own love? _He doesn't love her…_

Sam was taking the towel from him, but he was warmer now from emotion and Sam's comfort, and he felt a blush rise through him as he stood there tired and damp and naked. Sam's hand came to rest for a moment on his left arm, which was still cold and numb, then stroked upward to the reawakened morgul wound. Frodo turned his head and lowered his eyes, but Sam caught his chin and stared at him intensely, his scrutiny breaking only when he mistook Frodo's slight trembling for a shiver. Frodo tried to abate his pounding heartbeat as Sam took up Frodo's robe and a thick blanket and bundled him in both, hesitating now and returning his gaze to Frodo's eyes. "Shall I tuck you into bed?"

He said it so simply, so innocently, and yet the words awoke in Frodo something else entirely. He thought Sam would unabashedly crawl into bed with him and hold him if Frodo only asked...but such comforts were improper now. And there was nothing for him--_it is gone, gone, and all is dark and empty--he was left alone in the Black Lands, naked to the deadly keen aim of the Eye. Lost, useless and wounded he lay as carrion for Sauron's gloating capture, drawing evil to him and all those near._

"Leave me, Sam," Frodo insisted painfully. "Don't let this corruption touch you."

Sam took his arm firmly and calmly. "Begging your pardon, Mr. Frodo, but I sure as can't leave you. I'm not sure what you mean, but rest easy and your Sam will drive this foul thing away."

Sam supported him under his shoulders as he swayed weakly, and together they moved slowly through the corridor with Rosie soon accosting them, having been busy with tea and soup and blankets. Soon Frodo was settled comfortably in bed with a fire burning high in the grate, having hot mushroom soup pressed upon him by a determined Sam. He ate as much as he could and felt himself fall back into an exhausted doze, his eyelids dropping shut. 

Rosie's voice drifted through the buzzing in his ears. "Sam, oughtn't we send for the healer?"

"There's nothing as can be done by medicines and herb-lore," Sam sighed regretfully. "Mr. Gandalf said so."

"What is this sickness, that we can do nothing to heal?  It happened in March, though you weren't here, and he gave us all a terrible scare. We'd forgotten about it."

"It's the work of the enemy," Sam whispered, his voice blurring as if Frodo were being sucked underwater. 

"You said he was so strong that naught could overcome him, and that he saved the Shire. When will you tell me what really happened?"

_O, Sam... He tried to clutch at Sam's arm, but he couldn't even open his eyes, and the world seemed to melt away from him. _

_He was in a dark passageway thick with cobwebs and throbbing with evil. All around him were noises of breathing and rustling as if hundreds of foul creatures lay in wait, but there was no escape, with only Sam's hand clasped in his for protection. He could not even see him, for it was pitch black and they stumbled not knowing if their next step would send them into a chasm. Frodo felt the terror slowly lose its edge, as if he were resigning himself to darkness and dread--he stopped and held Sam back. He felt like he was falling already..._

_"Must we go on, dear Sam?"___

_But he couldn't hear Sam's reply, and he was frightened. He pulled him close in his arms so he could feel him, smell him, and know he was there. He listened for Sam's breath, he whispered into his ear. _

_"Sam, I don't want to go on. Sam, I love you. Let us stay here, and forget it all." _

_Still Sam did not reply. He was heavy and motionless in Frodo's arms. Frodo pressed his lips down on Sam's mouth, but no breath issued there. No heartbeat rocked his broad chest. His head fell limp upon Frodo's breast. _

_"No Sam, no...wake up, oh please wake up! I love you, Sam."_

"Sam? Don't leave me..." He struggled to open his eyes. Morning sunlight warmed his face and there were hot water bottles all about his cold left side. A hand rubbed his shoulder and wiped a damp cloth over his brow. "O, Sam," Frodo whispered. "I can't bear it. I love you Sam, I love you." 

"Sam's gone outside, Mr. Frodo," Rosie's voice came to him. "He's looking for some kingsfoil, as he said it may do you good." 

He met reality with panic. _I love you Sam, I love you. He had let out his secret. He tried to sit up, wanting to get away but also needing to see Rosie's face. "I was dreaming," he explained weakly. "Nightmares, brought on by this darkness--"_

"Don't speak, you need to rest." Rosie's expression was unreadable. She stood back a bit, not touching him. How heavily did she weigh Frodo's words? For a long time, or so it seemed to Frodo, they simply stared at each other. 

"Sam won't tell me what happened," she said finally. "Not everything, anyhow. But I'm no fool. Others may not care, or notice, but I know my Sam isn't the same, and maybe he won't never be. And Mr. Merry and Mr. Pippin." She took a deep breath and resettled the coverlet over Frodo. "Folks whisper about them a great deal, and I reckon most of what they say is true, although I keep my mouth shut about it. What is it about your Journey that has turned all of you inwards, so's you can't seem to love anyone but each other?" These last words were spoken in a gasp, and Rosie began to scramble away with shining eyes. 

Frodo had not the strength to follow after her, but still he tried to get out of the bed. "Please, Rose! Forget what I said. I was just dreaming."

She was almost weeping now, but for her fierce stubbornness. "I know I'm losing him, Mr. Frodo. It's not only you. He has dark memories too sometimes, and _he won't tell me..." __    _

Frodo was at a loss, still in shock, wondering if Sam was as blind as he had been to the peril of his marriage. Eventually he found his voice. "It was Sam who was strong, Rosie," Frodo said. "I was nothing without him. By the end, I could do nothing for myself. Please don't be angry with him for keeping the dark tales to himself." 

She did not reply, for Sam had come in the front door. By the time he arrived in Frodo's room, they had both composed themselves as if nothing had happened. Sam passed a handful of athelas to Rosie and told her to steep it in hot water. 

"Better now?" Sam asked softly. 

Frodo closed his eyes, for once in his life hoping Sam might leave him alone. Instead, a chaste kiss caressed his hand, mocking him for all that he could not have.

*

TBC. I continue to appreciate all your comments!


	5. Beyond all towers

**In the Grey Twilight**

The first part of this chapter is from Rosie's POV. I understand the abundance of slash readers, myself included, don't really care for Rosie--in fact, my partner wishes I would turn her into a goat. But I think it is necessary to portray her sympathetically.  We can't wish her away; she demands to be dealt with. And she's a force to be reckoned with: I find she's the biggest challenge in F/S. Without her, it wouldn't matter if Frodo and Sam ever spoke of their feelings; if they were together alone, there would be no need for them to think about the depth of their bond. But Rosie's presence complicates things.

I also want to add that the next chapter will have some welcome optimism!  I hope everyone can hold out!

*

Rose Cotton set the last dish back in the cupboard and wiped her hands on her apron, staring out the window. The sky was grey and sunless above, and the trees were barren; Sam's garden was a mere skeleton of trellises and snow-capped yellow stalks. Still, if she looked far across the field she could see bright banners flying and the small warm glow of many lanterns, for it was Yule's eve. She wished Bag End were more bright and festive, not frozen in furtive waiting, and wondered why she was at such a loss to bring light to her husband's eyes. 

Sam was sitting before the fire, and Rosie heard a soft singing voice drift through the hole like smoke from Sam's evening pipe. 

"_Here at journey's end I lie _

_in__ darkness buried deep,_

_beyond__ all towers strong and high,_

_beyond__ all mountains steep,_

_above__ all shadows rides the Sun_

_and__ Stars for ever dwell:_

_I will not say the day is done, _

_nor__ bid the day farewell." _

She could not bring herself to go to him, not just yet, feeling haunted by ghosts whose names she would never know. It was unusual for her to be so unsettled by a simple, beautiful song, but somehow she guessed a horde of secrets lay locked in those towers strong and high. Wistfully she threw a glance at her sewing basket, where her present for Sam waited nearly finished, but she could not bear to sit alone in silence and work on it. She would busy herself with baking, until the hole smelled warm and honeyed with the coming celebrations, and then Sam would come to her for a slow embrace and it would be all right. 

From the window she saw a small figure coming up the path and she stopped breathing. She knew it would be Mr. Frodo, and the evening would tumble out of her hands with Sam drawn away from her as a moth to a candle-flame. Unwilling to lose him just yet, she went lightly to the door and opened it.    

"Nibs!" she cried, seeing only her youngest brother, shovel in hand. "Get on home! I'm sure pa has enough work for you there."

He shrugged unhappily. "But I've got an arrangement. Mr. Frodo gave me a job, he did." 

"I'm sure he wouldn't expect you to work today, Nibs, it's just that he's still not back yet. But come in and have some tea and warm up, would you?" 

The lad made his way into the smial, looking apologetically at the snow he'd tracked over Frodo's floor. Rosie smiled overzealously, trying to set him at ease, for she hated the way her family avoided visiting and how uncomfortable they looked when she persuaded them to come for dinner. Because it was _Mr. Frodo's smial, and his fine things were alien to hobbits used to homemade earthenware and wooden cutlery. They had grown to love and respect Frodo when he lived at their smial while Bag End was being repaired, but the span of class distinctions simply couldn't be crossed. _

"Pa wishes you'd come home for Yule," Nibs said, looking dubiously at the fine teacup Rosie set on the table before him. "He don't understand why you'd want to have supper all alone up here." 

"Well I told him he could bring the family to Bag End, but that was out of the question." She swatted the ridiculous hat off his head. "Sup your tea while it's hot or you won't get any cake."   

"I wish you'd come too. Why'd you have to stay holed up here?"

"We can't leave Mr. Frodo all alone, can we?" she said with a lightness that edged on sarcasm.  

"But ain't he still in Crickhollow? He's been gone a month now." 

Just then Sam came into the kitchen and Rosie bit back her retort, watching as he stared at Nibs and made his way to the window. He leaned against it but there was nothing casual in his manner; indeed his entire body was tense and he peered out anxiously.  

"He said he'd be home for Yule," Sam murmured in disbelief. Tiredness had made its home in his shoulders, though his garden was under two feet of snow and he didn't have any planting to do over the fields. He seemed ill, yet there were no symptoms she could take to a healer, and seemingly naught that she could do, though keeping the scent of kingsfoil in the smial eased his sleep.  __

Seeing his pale face and feeling sorry, Rosie reached out to him, her touch on his bowed back fluttering as if she feared being burned. "It's a bit of a rough journey during the winter, Sam, but I'm sure he'll come along as soon as he can. Will you have something to eat?"

"I just don't understand," Sam replied, seeming to speak to himself. "He belongs at Bag End." 

Nibs shifted, distinctly uncomfortable. Rosie wondered how much of this would reach her parents' ears, and said calmly, "Maybe he's found himself a nice lass."

"Not from what I've heard," Nibs muttered under his breath.

Rosie sat down hard at the table, her knees simply giving out from under her, causing tea to spill over and stain the pristine tablecloth a sickly, aged yellow. 

"Rose?" Sam turned at last, taking her shoulders. But she shrugged him off and stood too quickly, righting the tea cups and yanking the tablecloth fiercely from the table. She threw it into the sink and doused it with cold water.  

"Rose, sit Rose," Sam pleaded. Finally she surrendered, nearly falling into Sam's arms, feeling his gentle strength. Still she trembled, unable to stop, fear rushing through her. Sam's skin was cold against her cheek. Cold like the windows where the frost crept up. Cold like October. _I love you Sam, I love you... _

"O Sam," she said softly as he lowered her back into the chair. She grasped his cold hands, hopeless to warm them, until she placed them on her swollen abdomen.  

"Can you feel the baby kick, Sam, can you?"

Slowly he smiled. Colour seemed to blossom on his face, and his hands grew a little warmer. "Hard to believe it's real, if you follow me."

Nibs was fidgeting, glancing nervously between Sam and Rosie. "I'm sure pa could use my hand at something, as you said, so I'd best be off. Happy Yule." He was out the door within seconds with a piece of cake under his arm and a cold draft gusted through the hall.  

Rosie wanted to wrap herself around Sam to drive away his shivering. Though it was not late, it was dark already, and she thought they could climb into bed and he would be warm at last under the heavy quilts. 

"I forgot how dark it gets these days, right around supper time," Sam murmured as he stroked her stomach. "Makes you think the days'll get shorter and shorter until the sun just quits, and stays buried under the hills." 

Again she heard malicious whisperings of some ancient ghost. She let her head fall back onto his breast, and looked up into his eyes. "Please, Sam, let's go to bed. You're cold." 

"It's heavy," he said, his face pained. 

"What? O, tell me."

He placed his hand at the centre of his chest. "It's heavy, and I remember it now, though at the time I didn't hardly think of it. I lost him once, Rose." His voice thickened and he paused, looking down at her as if making a desperate appeal. "But I had to leave him, and it was so heavy then. It's heavy now. He can still feel it around his neck, and I think I can feel it too." 

Rosie swallowed, shaking her head. It rushed at her like galloping horses, a thousand irreconcilable emotions all at once, and she realized she could not bear to hear that which she so desperately _needed to hear. "Please. Don't. Please let's go to bed."_

He sat back on his heels, and she twisted in the chair, trying ineffectually to pull him to his feet. He escaped her grip to stand on his own, and went to the sink where the tablecloth lay soaking. "I've some things I ought to do for Yule...I wanted the Gaffer to come, but since he's not, I better bring some things for the family." 

Rosie looked away, a long silent sigh issuing from her trembling lips. "Yes," she whispered. "I've some things to do too." Quickly she kissed him on the cheek, thinking she might break down in front of him if she lingered. "Goodnight, Sam." 

She brought her sewing basket into the bedroom and sat down on the bed, pulling a blanket around her. Still her mind quaked like the dying sobs of a cried-out child. Sam had asked her if there was anything in particular she wanted for Yule, and she'd feigned to think on it. But if she _could have one thing in the world, like casting a wish into a well, she'd want to turn time back to Sam's return from his journey. They never had a proper courting. There was never that flush of anticipation or discovery; they had never learned the stories of each other's lives. Sam had tossed in his sleep last night, murmuring words she couldn't understand, of tales he never told her. __Shelob__, he'd said. What did it mean?   _

Tears traced down her face unbidden. She was afraid to know. Sam was far away in that tower strong and high, hidden where she could not reach him. And, she knew painfully, he was searching for Frodo.

* * * *

Peregrin Took swung his sword like a stave, letting his cloak stream behind him despite the piercing December air that crept up his chest and struck at his arms. Jauntily he walked, and it seemed more an afternoon stroll than the quiet four o'clock in the morning retreat to his smial, after the raucous and wonderful Party that had left Brandy Hall in veritable shambles. Yet someone who knew him well might see he was a spring ready to snap, and what with his shining mail he looked like a tin soldier wound too tightly. In a fury he dipped and smacked between his palms a ball of snow, whirling as he had danced all night long to lob it smartly at his cousin. 

It rapped Meriadoc soundly between the shoulders, merely an insult to his hauberk, but he was not prepared and it knocked him off balance. He landed with a strong oath on his backside in the soft snow. 

Pippin marched back to his lover and offered his hand, and after glaring for a moment, Merry took it. The wind stirred around them, sending a spray of glittering snowflake jewels, and Pippin's eyes sought southward, standing bold with his sword firm in his hand. Merry rubbed his bleary eyes, standing a pace behind and not seeing much of anything. 

"Do you never tire, Pippin?" Merry wondered. "This was the longest Yule yet, if only because I can remember it all. A curse on soberness, I abstain for naught but to worry. I'm tired, Pip. What are you staring at? Are you listening? We have to figure out what to do for Frodo."

Pippin watched stars glimmer off his blade, the edge frosted white. In his mind's eye he beheld the White Tower, banners blazing from it as if flame, and gilded by a noble trumpet's cry. Horses rode in, horses he would ride or be trampled in trying.  

"Have some wine and go to bed, Mer. I'll look in on him."

"Will you not come to bed with me?" Merry tried to smile. "There's yet one more Yule present I can give you."   

Pippin stopped before the gate and plucked icicles from the fence beam, breaking them with a sharp _crack and letting them fall as deadly arrows. Soon his hands were wet and slick and numb...like Merry's slow, sweat-soaked palm as he tried to hold it tonight. __So! Merry! his drunken father had shouted, clapping him hard on the back. __We know you're fond of young Peregrin, but if you're to be Master then you'd better take up a lass. And you mind they won't wait forever--at your age you've got a late start. There had been some cheering at that, and Merry bowed, non-committal, wrestling out of Pippin's grip. It was madness. They were all blind but to that which they wanted to see, mistaking Pippin even in his armour for just a young lad. Worse still, they saw the two cousins building a life together and dismissed it for a temporary matter of convenience. _

"The King said he would recall us to duty one day," Pippin murmured. "I wish it were sooner rather than later."

Merry's hands closed in on his shoulders, his squeezing futile against the mail beneath his cloak. His hands slipped down and under instead, rubbing at Pippin's soft belly. "We've enough to keep us happy in the Shire, don't you think? I feel no need for Men and barracks and sentinel-duty." 

Pippin was silent, frozen and serious under the ink-black starscape. When he felt Merry's hands fold around his own cold ones, the warmth shocking him like sparks from a hearth, he let himself lean back against him. He knew Merry did not understand his restlessness, wanting to find peace and easiness and never let it go. He turned a bit and kissed his lover lightly on the neck. 

"Let's get in. I'm putting you to bed with a glass of wine and a backrub. And maybe a kiss or two."

"We shouldn't have stayed so late," Merry said, walking up the round front door. "Him not wanting to go to Yule and all. I don't understand it. Missing _Yule. He's torturing himself here."_

"We ought to take him back to Bag End," Pippin suggested.  

"That's no way to treat him."

"We'll talk about it in the morning, Mer."  

As promised, Pippin steered Merry into the bedroom and began to help him out of his mail, his nimble, all-too-sober fingers making quick work of the fastenings. Soon it fell loose and rippled to the floor like a silver flood breaking through a dike, a lovely laughing noise. Merry followed suit and they stood admiring each other, bare-chested and hushed. A kiss followed, brief but tender and over-ripe with pain, but when Merry sighed Pippin pummelled him, throwing him down on the bed and sitting on his hips. 

"Let's get some horses," he said, threatening to tickle him. "No one would think I was so young if I could ride circles round them on a big steed." 

Merry smiled sympathetically. "We'll talk about it in the morning, Pip."

Cuffing him playfully, Pippin jumped off the bed with a look that warned Merry to stay put. Yule-songs buzzed in his ears as he padded down the corridor to the wine-cellar. Passing the pantry, he saw a tempting plate of holiday-themed sugar cookies and thought about making off with them, but then he had a better idea. He poured out a small mug of ale and took it along with the cookie platter down to Frodo's room. He was careful to open the door quietly so as not to disturb his cousin, but he felt sad that Frodo had missed out on such a grand feast, and part of him wanted to wake him up and throw a Party right in his bedroom. 

He tiptoed in, met by a frenzy of torn and crumpled paper strewn about the room, but his cousin was safely tucked in bed, curled up facing the window. Pippin put the plate and the mug down on his nightstand. Perhaps Frodo would awake before morning rose, and he would find his treasure there. Pippin's mother used to do that when he was young and prone to nightmares after too many of Bilbo's scary tales, and although Pippin knew Frodo came to Crickhollow hoping he could look after himself, Frodo seemed to need more than either Merry or Pippin could give. Turning away from Frodo, he stared out at the battlefield of a bedroom.

He crouched there on the floor, his hand stealing among scraps of paper. Some of the ink was splotched and glittering, freshly laid, and smudged thickly across his fingers cursing him for spying on his cousin. He had experienced much and knew curiosity could be sharply punished; it happened that he was loath to snatch stones that might roll by in offering. Yes, he would never again place a rock beneath a sleeping wizard's elbow, but he could not drag himself away from his sleeping cousin's bedroom. His blackened fingers rustled a page and held it up almost to his nose, trying in the dimness to decipher handwriting which scrawled out and diminished like a gull wheeling in the wind. 

..._and upon learning of this tale, most are stricken by curiosity about the Ring, to know its quality and its likeness, and indeed some are fascinated that I had it in my keeping for so long, foolishly begrudging my chance to touch it. Yet real men of strength and virtue know differently, and as one such fair warrior said to me, "Not if I found it on the highway would I take it."  Still it seems I have been made an expert on matters of the Ring and perhaps there is no question I cannot answer in its respect. _

_First I will describe its look, which was of richest unscathed gold. It bore an air of unwholesome perfection, as if its beauty were at once overwhelming and terrible to behold. It had power of its own to change size, and when I most wanted to put it on, it became very small and warm and delightful to touch. Most often it was bitterly cold and bore down upon me with a crushing weight. It grew heavier as I walked further into Mordor, and its power weakened me.   _

_To a great extent I was truly within the Ring's grasp. I was possessed by it; my thoughts turned endlessly upon it. So like a twisted love affair, a needy obsession, half-drunk and clawing through terrifying hallucinations. You see, the One Ring had me hard but my One Companion did too. Both golden, both powerful; one vile and dark, one pure and bright. I was caught between them both, this Ring-lust and my Samwise. It doesn't bear thinking about, for how could I befoul my dear Sam, how could I draw him into this wanting, which flowed out from the rotten mire of the Ring's power? I mean to say, the corruption of the Ring was a lasting taint, which diseased even the fairest of emotions and intentions. My Sam, I loved him, so I drew the fate of the world into my hands and walked forward; but didn't I love the Ring too, and didn't that make me forever unworthy?    _

_To lose the Ring was to lose all things, since it had taken them from me. It meant to come home, to the place I'd warmed in my mind with yearning, and feel myself a stranger. One thing I had left, for the Ring gave me one respite...but how quickly I lost him too, and sometimes now they seem one and the same... For despite everything it was a love that could not be, a love doomed to silence, and I was burdened by keen recognition of my defilement. I would not pollute him thus, nor would I steal from him his fortune, his family, simply because I have none of my own.  _

Pippin put the paper down and did not reach for another, sitting back on his heels and feeling quietude overcome him, his thoughts dropping like stones. _You saved the Shire that others might keep it. I never meant to be ungrateful, Frodo. Pippin looked upon him, saddened and remorseful, feeling like all the contentment of his life henceforth was stolen from his cousin. Could no one give him back what he lost? Could no one give him all that he deserved?_

Frodo had reluctantly told them what had happened during his illness, and why he thought he couldn't return to Bag End so long as Rosie and Sam lived there. But Pippin thought, nay he _knew that Sam loved Frodo, although the issue was thornier than a brier patch. And Frodo deserved Sam's love. __He needs him, Pippin thought. __It's crazy what he could have had. It was painful to think on what his life could have been, had fate been fonder to him. Bilbo and Gandalf used to say that Frodo was the best hobbit in the Shire. _

Certainly Frodo had been hasty. Perhaps Rosie didn't grasp what he had accidentally revealed. Perhaps if Frodo spoke up, Sam could understand and make his own decisions. There were choices yet, and surely Frodo didn't have to remain hidden away in his self-imposed exile. Pippin shook his head, set firm in determination. What was to be done? Someone had to take action, and quickly.

Last night he heard Frodo and Merry talking. 

_"What will you do when your book is done? Pippin's been anxious to go South; maybe you could come for a spell. The King could read your book, and we're known throughout the City so you'd be comfortable there. They would honour you."_

_Frodo spoke slowly, as if tired beyond hope of sleep. "I have considered it, but Rivendell draws me. I keep thinking about how lonely Bilbo must be without any hobbits for companionship. He and I have an understanding beyond mere kinship...he knows he's lost something...I should go and stay with him. I owe him that much. No, don't say anything--I didn't mean to tell you this, but I'm resolved. As soon as I've finished my book, I shall leave, and leave alone."_

What was to be done, what was to be done? Hadn't Sam's letters to Crickhollow, which Frodo pretended not to read, seemed thick with his own blood and pain? Perhaps Sam needed him too.  

Glancing at his cousin to see that he still slept soundly, he opened a desk-drawer and took out some stationary. The little card was purple and gold and silver with an inlay of thin tissue and upon this Pippin carefully scribed a song:

_Come as you are or wear your best,_

_Come alone or bring a guest. _

_No matter how, just make your way_

_To Crickhollow for New Year's day! _

He addressed the envelope to Samwise Gamgee, and stuck it safely in his pocket. Then he padded back to his room, where his lover lay softly snoring. He kissed him on the cheek and settled contentedly at his side, resting his head in the crook of Merry's neck. He knew there could be no better place for him.

He would tell Merry in the morning. 

*

TBC. Feedback is greatly appreciated. Happy holidays, everyone!


	6. New Year and Old Memories

**In The Grey Twilight**

I'm dreadfully sorry it's taken so long to post this chapter. It might help you to know that my habit is to write sections at different points in the story-line, and then put them into order later. For instance, I have written about 20 pages of material for later chapters, including the ending. ^_^

Great thanks to all the reviewers! Inkstain, I'm glad to have you back. Thanks as always for your careful insights. Shirebound and A Elbereth, thanks for being loyal supporters and for writing such great stories of your own! Haeharmaiel, Reishin, Isildae and KJS, I'm gratified to hear you appreciate how I've tried to portray Rosie. Your encouragement helped me out!

*

Samwise Gamgee felt his heart stop. He stood before the Took-Brandybuck smial, away in the snow-covered garden, where no one noticed him. His eyes bore strange witness, just as his nerves quaked unsteadily and often his hand sought his sword-hilt, only to be anxiously reminded of its absence. Indeed it had taken all his wits to convince him to leave his sword behind, untouched in the dusty chest in which it lay. Unarmed, crouching and tense, he watched as visions of orcs streamed before his eyes. There was a small crowd of them, set at a march for the gate, and Frodo was secured in the thick of it, seen only in glimpses. Sam inched forward and clung to a tree-stump, kneeling in the snow as if it were grass.    

A few heartbeats, then the horde disappeared, and Frodo with them. Sam cursed but did not despair. Before him lay a closed gate and then an impenetrable door, and beyond that was a dark mystery, but Sam would go on until he found his master, or was defeated. He rose cautiously and moved hurriedly through the hushed snow, pushing open the gate all at once. 

"I'm coming, Mr. Frodo!" he called, making a mad dash for the door, even as a terrible weight on his neck dragged him down. There, standing on the little stoop before the great round door, he held his breath, and pounded upon it. Then he waited, and from within he heard noises that chilled his spine. There was yelling and shouting, so loud that perhaps none would hear his knock. But his will did not waver and he brought out Galadriel's phial from his breast, and throwing his weight upon the door until it gave, he toppled into the fire-lit foyer. Shadows crowded the walls and cries met his ears. When the shock cleared he caught a soul-wrenching sound: a voice, so like his master's, faintly singing. 

He ran, holding out his light before him, coming through tunnels and chasing his master's voice. The corridor opened to a room, and he halted hard. He thrust the phial back into his bosom and gave himself a count of three, and then he charged.  

The room was dark but for the red fire, and seemingly empty. Sam turned about in desperation, and then he saw a shadow sitting upon the bed, holding a piece of paper in his hand. It was Frodo. 

"Frodo! Mr. Frodo, my dear! It's Sam, I've come!" He flew to the side of the bed and took Frodo up in his arms, nearly blinded by tears. 

"Sam?" Frodo said, startled. "Is it really you?"

"Yes, it's me, I'm here." The panic and fear drained out of his blood and left him shaking like a child awoken from a nightmare. But Frodo was in his arms, safe and alive, and suddenly a weight of darkness seemed to topple from his shoulders, and a black mist cleared before his eyes. Confusion rocked him back and forth slowly as does the tide of the sea. Yes, he was safe, and wasn't everything all right? He had come. His mind worked furiously. It was Merry and Pippin's New Year's party, and the smial was full of guests...it seemed he had been living out a dream, thinking he was in that terrible tower again. Imagining the Ring hanging at his breast, and of Frodo in the hands of the orcs. Hastily he blinked away his tears and tried to comprehend the strangeness that had come over him.  

"Sam, what, what are you doing here?" Frodo pulled back enough to look at him, wondering at his face.  

"Don't mind," Sam stuttered, "don't mind me, Mr. Frodo. I'm here is all."

"But what's the matter? You're sweating."

"It was hard-going travel all the way from Hobbiton." He took a steadying breath and anchored himself in Frodo's eyes, assuring himself of this reality, and letting the nightmare fade. _I've been dreaming of that awful time all month, seemingly. _He reached inside his vest and took out Frodo's star-light, holding it in offering. "You left it behind, Mr. Frodo, and I felt sore about it. I thought you'd want it."

"Sam..." Frodo said as he took up the phial. "Thank you. But to come all this way, alone in the winter, and Rosie--what is it, what's happened, what has she said?" His tone changed suddenly and his eyes were at once fierce and afraid. 

"Nothing, Mr. Frodo, nothing. Everything is all right now." And indeed as he said it he felt a great lightness of his heart, and a quickening of joy. He held Frodo's hand tightly and he wanted to kiss it, but held back.

"Am I dreaming?" Frodo asked in earnest, though he too began to smile. "You look like an elf-warrior."

Sam blushed, casting his eyes down on himself. He wore his elven cloak and broach, and a brown and gold sweater Rosie had knit for him, complete with a swirling elven design she had copied from a picture in one of Frodo's books. He couldn't say why he'd wanted to wear such things any more than he could say why he'd been so compelled to bring his sword.  

"I'd say we should hope we're awake, because it's a fair sight better than the alternative," he said shyly. Now that he was here, he was hard put to restrain himself from scrutinizing Frodo head to toe, as if to read upon him what the past month had brought. He felt he could stand forever in that warm room with Frodo's hand firm in his, and so long as they were both safe nothing else mattered. "Glory and trumpets," he murmured softly. 

He didn't know what else to say, but the silence begged for words and he wanted to know how Frodo was feeling, and what he had been doing in Crickhollow. Instead he picked up the paper Frodo had dropped.

"What's this?"

"A song I wrote for Merry and Pippin, in honour of the occasion. You'll find this is no ordinary party--they're trying to prove themselves to their families. We've been cooking for two days straight, and they bought almost all the mushrooms Farmer Maggot had in his stores."

"And I bet Pervinca will eat them all!" Pippin cried cheerily, bursting in with Merry behind him. 

They just barely heard Merry whisper fiercely, "Out, Pip! Leave them be!" But Pippin paid him no mind. 

"You frightened her terribly, Sam, she thought you were some intruder. Shame on you, sneaking around the smial like that!"

"Are you all right, Sam?" Merry asked seriously and somewhat apologetically. "How was the trip from Hobbiton?"

Frodo's hand tightened on Sam's, then let go, raising his eyebrows at his cousins. "You conspirators have been at it again, I see," he said shrewdly.

"You leave us little choice, Frodo Baggins!" Pippin said. "But don't you blame old Sam, he wasn't our chief investigator this time. We just sent him an invitation in the mail."

"How am I ever to trust you?" Frodo accused, but Sam could see he was close to laughing. 

"O, we're not to be trusted, that's for sure. Sam, since you left the door open and warmed up half of Crickhollow, you can help me get some more firewood."

The moment broken, Sam looked back on Frodo as if to make sure he knew his face perfectly, then went along with Pippin. The smial had become so warm and now that he was out in the cold air he felt completely refreshed. There was something to praise also in the heavy swing of the axe and the reassuring split of the wood, the motion being something his muscles were familiar with. Moreover, the work outdoors helped to clear his mind which had grown quite thick with questions, and all that mattered now was that he was happy, and things were almost perfect.

Once they'd set out a sufficient pile of wood, Sam and Pippin watched the fall of evening appreciatively. "We're very glad you came," Pippin said sincerely. 

"I'm thankful to be here, for sure, but why didn't you tell Mr. Frodo I was coming?" Sam asked carefully.

Pippin sighed melodramatically. "He's as stubborn a Baggins as they come. But he needs you, and he can't admit it." 

"He doesn't want to be a burden," Sam murmured. 

"He doesn't want you torn in two, Sam."

"But I told him...when I married Rose...we moved in with him because..."

Pippin waited patiently, but Sam clamped his mouth shut, not trusting himself. He didn't know why it had to be so difficult. Sometimes life seemed much simpler when it was just him and Frodo and the long road ahead of them. He'd left Rosie to stay with the Cottonses, and she had been unhappy at his taking the trip to Crickhollow. These days it seemed he didn't know what she was thinking, and painfully he found it hard to understand Mr. Frodo too.   

"Has Mr. Frodo been well?" Sam asked abruptly, unable to hold it in any longer. "He never answered my letters, and I was right worried, even though you said you were looking after him." 

"He's been all right, nothing out of the ordinary. He's been working hard at his book, and he's let us read some parts to test how accurately he's setting out the tale, but I bet he's just hoping for approval and applause. It's been a quiet month, mostly."

"He doesn't sleep real good, you know, and he forgets to eat if no one's there to remind him..."

"We know, Sam. Merry and I wouldn't let you down."

"It's just that he was barely recovered from that bout when he went, and all. He never did say why he was leaving. I've been thinking all sorts."

Pippin smiled sympathetically and Sam felt unaccountably embarrassed.  "Here I am jabbering when there's things to do," he muttered, and moved to pick up the axe, but Pippin stayed his hand. 

"Sam? How have _you_ been doing?"

"I don't rightly know," Sam honestly and plainly replied. "It seems as I've been sick, though not something as you'd call a healer about."

He looked off into the sky, dark and clear and unspoiled, and then closed his eyes for a moment. Yes, he could still see it, and feel its beauty all the way through his skin. There was no dread, nothing that might creep over him and make his hackles rise. He opened his eyes again and he wanted to go back to the smial and sit by Frodo's side. He'd long stopped wishing to have things back as they used to be, before Bilbo left and the Ring made its presence known, but just a moment of contentment on his master's face was a good second-best.      

"There was this uneasiness, and strange dreams, and bad memories...of that monster Shelob, and the tower, and the Ring. But now it's disappeared like pipe-smoke and I feel like jumping. I've never seen such a beautiful winter night. It's almost as like everything got turned new with the change of the year."

Pippin's eyes were understanding, which Sam hadn't expected. "He might go back with you," he said quietly.  

Sam swallowed. He kicked at the snow, keeping his face down, a swarm of feelings upon him like hornets. A hot blush crept up his cheeks, and he thought about giving up talking altogether, but words bolted from his lips: "I don't know what I'll do if he doesn't."

He hadn't meant to say it, he hadn't even heard the thought before it was out of his mouth. And now it floated in the very air between them, visible like their frosted breath.   

Pippin was brisk. "Forget about that for now. You're at a party, and it's a very good party, in my opinion. We want you to enjoy yourself."

Sam nodded, because he knew how to hold onto a moment and make it last. He knew how to look past the storm; he knew where to find that last patch of clear sky. He was more alive than he had felt in ages.

He told Pippin he would take care of the wood, mostly because he wanted a second alone, here where it was beautiful and the air was cool and his spirit flew. He collected the wood into his arms and thought about Mr. Frodo. He knew he had been out of his head when he got here; visions of orcs had pulled him into some dark place. But the joy of finding him had been real...and just as it had been the first time, it was not enough merely to find him. He would have to take Frodo home. 

He took the wood into the smial, then thought he'd feed the fire in the sitting-room. Most of the guests were gathered there, relatives of Merry and Pippin and Frodo whom Sam didn't know, all of them laughing in boisterous conversations. Sam received a few odd looks and he wondered shamefully just who had seen him running through the smial like a mad thing. Frodo was not in the room, but he spied him near the kitchen, which steamed gloriously and almost dripped with its rich fragrances.   

Sam hesitated when he saw Frodo talking to an older lady. He supposed he ought to turn away and quit eavesdropping, but he was too good at being quiet and unnoticed: he was a natural spy, and his spying seemed to happen without him ever intending it. Mostly, anyway, for he occasionally prided himself on being a good chief investigator. This time he merely leaned against the wall and tried to watch without staring, captivated as it were, and perhaps feeling protective. For the lady had tears in her eyes and she looked sadly down at Frodo's right hand. Frodo quickly hid it in his pocket, trying to smile and stand straighter. 

"I've thought of you often," the lady was saying. "I'm so glad to see you again. I know you've looked out for Merry, and I want to thank you for that."

Frodo seemed awkward. "I cannot say I looked after him very well, Esmeralda," he said, "but he came through on his own. Are you not very proud of him?"

"O yes, oh yes.  But Frodo, what's...what's become of you?" She closed her eyes and seemed to regret her words, but carefully she took Frodo's right elbow and eased his hand into view, and clasped it. "There's nothing I can do to help anymore, is there? Nothing so simple as a tweenager's nightmare." She had an astute gaze and a compassion that reminded Sam of his own mother. 

"You're very dear to me," Frodo replied softly. 

"My dear, you've been here all month and you haven't seen us." 

"I'm sorry." His master's eyes glittered and his voice broke. He shook his head as if to express futility, but he caught sight of Sam instead. Frodo gave him a small smile before looking back at Esmeralda. 

The lady looked like she wanted to embrace him, but settled for running her free hand over his hair and down his cheek. "Just remember, dear, I care for you as I did years ago, before Bilbo adopted you. I care for you as my own Merry. And I think...maybe Bilbo should never have left you."

Frodo's face and voice were strained. "But he had to go, he couldn't stay. It was too much for him. Has Merry told you nothing?"

"He's said a lot," she admitted, with a helpless look about her. "He's said so much, I can't tell the beginning from the end. Horror stories..."

"O, never mind that. Never mind."  

"I can't. I've always wanted the best for you. Ever since that horrible accident that took your parents, I  wanted fate to somehow intervene. And now I look into your eyes and I'm afraid. What's happened? What's this secret, this riddle, this thing that's robbed you?"

"You can't know, Esmeralda. You weren't meant to. As much as Merry drives you mad with stories that must seem like fantasies to your ears, we were fighting so that the Shire might never know what black things had happened in the world beyond it. Even Bilbo doesn't seem to understand anymore, and I'd hoped he would. But don't think I've been alone," he said. "I have Sam. Come, meet him." He led her by the hand and startled Sam by coming upon him, and Frodo wiped his eyes and laughed. "Samwise, my Sam, he has a knack for making my business his. Sam, this is Esmeralda Brandybuck. She's my elder cousin, like Bilbo--my aunt at Brandy Hall."

"I remember that much from your stories," Sam stammered, fighting down his own emotion. "A pleasure to meet you, ma'am."

The lady gazed thoughtfully upon them both. "Perhaps I can tell you some stories you haven't heard, Sam, of Frodo when he was very young. But for now we're due for supper, and these things must wait."    

Esmeralda squeezed Sam's hand warmly, gratitude in her eyes mixed with the lingering tears. "Thank you, Sam," she added quietly.

Sam couldn't manage a reply, but he bowed his head respectfully. At his side Frodo was chuckling delicately, chasing some childhood memory, and Sam felt strangely peaceful. It was as like things weren't perfect, but they were good enough, and all sorrows could be sent away by being grateful for what they had left.

The dining hall was exquisitely impressive to any hobbit's senses. Sam wanted to hang back, observe from a distance, and perhaps take a role he was familiar with, of serving and working and being useful. Laughter exploded around him after Merry's stern-faced father said something to Pippin, some kind of family joke that Sam didn't understand. Someone started up a song as they sought out their seats and Sam didn't know the words, but Frodo embraced his shoulders supportively. 

"We'll have to keep each other company tonight, I imagine. I hope you don't mind. It's Merry and Pippin's night, after all, and we're here mainly to cheer them on." 

"I'm looking forward to hearing your song, Mr. Frodo. Shall I clear the table so you can stand on it?" Sam teased.  

"Come along!" Merry said suddenly, forcing himself between them and linking arms with them both. "You're sitting up at the front of the table, with Pippin and I. Set a good example and sit quietly so we can start supper before the sun rises."  He left them just as quickly, herding in a small group of younger cousins and maintaining authority at the same time to properly greet late-coming elder guests. Sam noted that Pippin, also absorbed in his duties as host, appeared to be a handful of years older than he was--and by the pride in his face, Pippin seemed well aware of this.  

As they were settling into their seats an older hobbit strode up beside Frodo, a glass of ale in his hand and a look of business on his face. He plunked the ale down on the table and spoke as soon as Frodo glanced up at him.

"Well there, Frodo Baggins. I must say I'm glad to finally have words with you. I've a few things on my mind, that mayhaps you can help me sort out."

"I'd be happy to hear you out, Paladin," Frodo said, and Sam thought his words were guarded. With good reason, probably, for the gentlehobbit's manner was dark and stern.

"Indeed? Well we'll see. But who's this lad who's been running after you?" Paladin indicated Sam with a dismissive gesture. 

"This is Samwise Gamgee, and he is my friend. Sam, this is Pippin's father, Paladin Took."

Paladin did not waste time for pleasantries. "Your friend, eh? Maybe you can answer me something, Samwise Gamgee. Do you think, or am I mistaken, that a lad in his tweens ought to keep close to home and do his father's bidding?"

Sam shifted uncomfortably. "I don't suppose my opinion matters very much," he said finally. 

"Or do you think he ought to run off to danger and be among strange folk for a year, without even giving word to his family?"

Though he was never one to get into a disagreement and he rarely trusted himself with words, being of the opinion that talking could solve nothing, Sam now rose up in defense of his friends. "Whether or not it ought to have happened, I can't say, sir. But I do know that the danger sort of reached out and caught us all, and I think 'twas no one's fault that your son was taken up with it, as it were." 

Paladin Took looked heated, and a lady--Pippin's mother, Sam guessed--took his shoulder and tried to ease him. 

"Come now, Paladin, let it be," she said. "Look at our son. He's a fine lad, and he's returned to us all the better for his travels."

"He's been changed. Wherever he and Meriadoc go, they'll be stared at and shunned for the unnatural vice that has made them grow so tall."

"Please, Paladin, don't make this difficult. Let him be happy, and trust him."

"Peregrin!" Paladin suddenly shouted above the rest of the roar in the dining hall. All chatter submitted to his will. "Can I trust you to produce an heir?" 

"Yes," Pippin stated from across the room, brave and firm. "Just as Bilbo Baggins did." 

Paladin crumpled in his chair. He gulped his ale with a shaky hand. "He's too young to make such decisions about his life. He's so young, Eglantine."

"Maybe not," Eglantine replied. "He and Merry have done well, they run a good household. What's more, they are respected. That's all that should matter."

Paladin lifted his eyes to Sam. "What say you, lad? Would you want to live a life such as theirs?"

It was an odd question for sure, and he thought slowly, wondering how to answer. A life such as theirs? "Do you mean a life of companionship and caring, and two people loving each other, and everything that grows out of that? Theirs is as good as any."

Paladin sighed but became quiet, his head bowed and his nerves seeming to steady. Around them, conversations started again, and the mood was light as if a summer storm had passed and the sun shone out.  Sam felt Frodo's gentle hand squeeze his for the barest of moments, almost a dream before it was gone and they turned to each other for easy talk.  

At last Merry and Pippin stood at the front of the table, hands clasped, and raised their glasses. "Let us begin our meal with a toast," Merry said. 

This suggestion was well-received, because, like as not, it meant they should soon enjoy the feast. Sam, however, gave due thought to the toast and wondered what words he might offer on such an evening. Images tumbled through his head and he felt silly, making serious what should be light, but his mind persisted. _To finding again what I'd left behind... To a light in dark places... Then he looked up at Mr. Frodo. His face was flushed and his eyes bright, and he was smiling softly, looking very beautiful and simply __happy. Everyone held their glasses up but no one spoke.    _

Finally Merry cleared his throat. "To wealth that cannot be stolen, to treasures that cannot be spoiled. To friends, indeed, and loving company." 

Sam bowed his head and then tipped the brandy down his throat. _May you lie safe in the arms of love._

* * * *

Laughing, Frodo nearly tumbled from the table-top, and drank down another ale, fairly collapsing into his chair. Sam took the glass from his hand and made a mental resolution to keep Mr. Frodo from having any more, though he realized it was a bit too late. He was enjoying himself, simply. Frodo's attention was like sun on the flowers, and Sam was leaning in, edging closer with the abandon of one who thinks he can never be burned. It was freedom he felt on his skin, a glorious, endless promise of running through fields as carelessly as does a child who sees nothing but openness around him. Sam wondered at this sense of triumph without reason, surprised that one could have such strong feelings without understanding where they came from or what they meant. Then he remembered what Gandalf had said when he awoke on the fields of Cormallen, that he and Frodo had been lifted up and rescued by the great wings of the eagles. Sam had deeply regretted not remembering something so thrilling, but now he thought he knew exactly what it would feel like.

Pippin bowed and then stood tall, reciting a song in his clear, fine voice. Sam soon realized Pippin was singing about Merry's great deeds in the War, and he leaned forward, captivated. Everyone was silent and Merry was blushing as the tale unfolded.  When it was done Sam applauded with everyone else, but out of the corner of his eye he was watching Frodo slowly sliding down in his chair, his chin pressed against his chest, fast asleep.

"I've no doubt folks'll be calling you Magnificent," Saradoc was saying fondly to his son. "You watch his head doesn't grow too big, master Peregrin." 

No one was paying attention to Frodo and Sam, so Sam thought it would be a good moment to put him to bed. He protectively gathered him in his arms, lifting him easily. Frodo did not stir as he carried him slowly down the hall and lowered him onto his bed. 

_At least I can make him more comfortable_._ Carefully Sam began to undress his master. Solemnly humming a tune from his ancient-seeming childhood, he drew Frodo's braces from his shoulders and unbuttoned his shirt. How fair his skin was! Like fresh milk in the bucket on a crisp morn. He peered still deeper, seeking that pure glow of light from within his body, shimmering its secrets. It occurred to him that maybe no one else in the Shire could see it, even when, to Sam's eyes, it beat out the light of the moon. "I reckon hobbits would be coming from all over the Shire to be near you if they could see it," Sam said softly to his sleeping master. __But now I've come, at least. And this time I'll not leave you again.   _

He folded Frodo's shirt neatly and set it aside. Again he looked into Frodo's face to see how well he slept. His face was so delicate. Not only were his features carefully crafted, as if the workmanship of clever Elves, but his skin was almost transparent, especially his eyelids and at his temples and his ears. So beautiful he was, and yet he had no maid to love him. Sam knew his master would not marry, and that was sad. Frodo needed love more than anyone in Middle-earth, and it had been hardest for him when the Fellowship parted ways after the blessed reunion, as these seemed to be the only people who would ever love him or understand him. Aragorn and Gandalf both had protected and cared for Frodo in a way that was fatherly--what if they were here now? Would they have advice for Frodo and be able to help him better than Sam? Sam wrestled with the question but grudgingly admitted that if they thought they could help his master, they never would have left him. He sighed. Gandalf had no answers, no ancient words to heal Frodo's ills. There was nothing to be done. 

Frodo looked very lonely lying on the bed. 

_I would hold him. I would protect him every night and every day. I would give him everything he wanted.  I would love him if he'd let me. I would kiss him...  _

He went to the wardrobe and got out one of Frodo's fine nightshirts. He lay it on the bed beside him and leaned down close enough to feel Frodo's breath on his cheek. He felt he could mourn for the rest of his life, and yet also he could rejoice--he and his master were _alive, and together, and wasn't there still some hope?     _

His hands were shaking. He looked down at them; years of hard work had toughened them and naught in the depths of Mordor could make them tremble but now all it took was a simple thought. _I would kiss him..._ __

He swallowed. He felt terribly warm. Standing up straight, he took the silvery nightshirt in his hands and drew it over his master's head, lifting Frodo at the shoulders and carefully pulling his arms through the sleeves one at a time. Laying Frodo's head softly on the pillows, he tugged the nightshirt gently over his chest. Frodo was motionless but for soft breathing, fainter than the quiver of a flower petal greeted by a honeybee. Unconsciously Sam arranged his hands upon his breast, and then he reeled backwards, remembering...

_Frodo, Mr. Frodo! Don't leave me here alone! It's your Sam calling. Don't go where I can't follow! Wake up, Mr. Frodo! O wake up, Frodo me dear, me dear. Wake up!_

Anguished, he buried his face in his hands. _Why did I let you go away? Why did I follow you to Mordor but let you slip away to Crickhollow? _Tears trickled between his fingers. Then he straightened and lay his eyes again upon his master. _O why did you leave? What did you need that I couldn't give you?_

He could not reconcile this, his love and his failing. He could breathe love upon his master's flesh, he could cry love into his helpless hands, he could whisper love whilst Frodo slept. All of which could be scattered by the wind; his efforts dispersed like a dandelion puff. Yet over the fields he clove the good earth with his spade, he planted seeds deeply and immovably, and the land was healed and green again. How simple it was to love the dark earth that could never reject him. Frodo had left, and Sam was failing. 

_I'd love you if you'd let me... _It seemed the only problem lay in the offering, and the taking.

Matter-of-factly, he unbuttoned Frodo's breeches, drew them off, and tucked him into the bed. Frodo stirred, his hand reaching out and clasping empty air. Sam gently stroked his knuckles, encouraging his still-sleeping master to hold onto his hand, a living anchor. "I'm taking you home, Mr. Frodo," he said softly, kissing his brow. "Again."

*

TBC. Your comments are appreciated, and thanks for sticking with me!


	7. Whispers of the Sea

**In The Grey Twilight**

Thanks to everyone who reviewed, I feel quite spoiled!

The biggest thanks are due to my partner, Michiru, who gave me the idea for the first section of this chapter, and helped me see how to deal with Rosie. 

Inkstain: I think we'd better create a twelve-step program to leading a spoiler-free life, or else we'll never make it to December. :)  

Teasel: I hadn't thought about that aspect of story (that the lovers' obstacles come from their virtues). Now it seems even harder to _remove those obstacles! But it's giving me something to think about, certainly. _

oselle: I absolutely adore everything you've posted thus far, so your opinion means a lot to me. Thanks!

St.CatherineEvangelineWoodsorel: I know it's a long wait for the "real" slash to appear. I hope the small moments & hints in this chapter can tide you over. 

Marauder: M/P is growing on you? That's fantastic! I myself have mixed feelings about Merry and Pippin's marriage in this story. By the story's end I'd like to show how the marriage came about, and make it more believable. 

*

"He says he's well, but I don't believe it." 

Rosie looked up where her husband stood in the doorway, his face full of thought and no intention of lying down with her, though the hour was late. She had been waiting, her back sore and her legs tired, propped uncomfortably on pillows and knitting a tiny sleeper for the unborn babe. It was March thirteenth  and the little one was due any day now, according to the healer. 

"Come to bed, Sam," she said, trying to keep her voice light but failing. "Come to bed, and just for a moment, pretend it's just you and I here in our own smial as a hobbit-family ought to be. 

Sam came as far as the foot of the bed, touching the quilt absently. "I don't feel as like I can sleep."

"Then talk to me, and tell me what you have been doing all day. We can think on a name for the little one."

Finally he sat on the bed, massaging her foot in his capable hands. He seemed a million miles away and Rosie wanted to pull him near, make his eyes see nothing but her. "I've no head for maid-child names," he said, "but if it were a boy, I suppose there's plenty we could name him after. My Gaffer, for one, or your pa, or maybe Mr. Bilbo. Though I think our babe will grow up very brave and wise, and by the way it kicks I'd say he'll be an adventurer. So mayhaps we ought to name him after Mr. Frodo, to give him the best start."    

_No, _she wanted to shout, and all the while she tried to tell herself there was no harm in a name, but tears still stung her eyes. She could not stop the bitter words that flew past her lips. "But you're the only one who would think so. When Shirefolk talk of bravery, they spare no words for Mr. Frodo."

His hands went still, her foot cold between them. "They'd give thanks to him if I had my way," he said, his voice held steady only by effort. "But they don't know."

"Perhaps they know enough. They look at him and see a sorry and strange lad, who wouldn't fight in the Battle of Bywater, and gave up being Mayor. You say he's a hero, but there's so little left of him--is that any legacy for our first-born?"

Her heart was racing now, and though she saw the hurt on Sam's face, she could not stop. Tears overflowed her eyes, hot streams down her cheeks. It was far too late to stop the flood of words and thoughts she'd kept hidden.  She began to struggle to her feet, throwing aside Sam's arm when he tried to help. "You've had no time for me, not enough as you should. You worry over him like there's naught else in the world. And I don't know what's behind your eyes anymore, Sam..." 

Her head whirled and dimly she was aware of getting dressed as Sam stood behind her, motionless in shock. 

"You shouldn't get up," he finally mumbled, seeming to know his protests were futile. "The healer said you need rest and quiet."

Somehow she managed to get dressed and wound a cloak about her, but her tears now ran too thick to argue. "I'm going for a walk," she said, choking. 

"You oughtn't to, Rosie, please--"

"I'll go to my parents' for the night. Don't wait for me." And collecting a few things into a basket she fled, relieved at last that he didn't try to follow her. 

The chill air was a welcome shock on her damp face and neck.  She marched as fast as her sore and burdened body could take, propelled by fear and fury. Images filled her mind, of Sam being unhappy and her unable to do anything about it; then Sam leaving for Crickhollow and those terrible three days when she worried he might not come back; then Sam walking through the door of Bag End, beaming again as he used to, with Mr. Frodo at his side.  

She had gone a fair way down the road, knowing all along that she couldn't go to her parents, not for this. She didn't want to hear their sharp words, their criticism, their constant offers to build a hole for Rosie and Sam alone. She just wanted to walk and let the wet air envelop her. So walk she did, praying to be unseen, to let her thoughts drift out like clouds over the moon. How lonely she felt, and how familiar the distant stars seemed, as she considered her place in Bag End. She was misunderstood by her family and she did not understand her husband. It was a frightening, empty middle ground to keep. 

After a time she came to a bench by Sam's _mallorn__ tree, and rested upon it. Would it change with the baby, she thought for the thousandth time? Would Sam be grounded by the immediacy of life here-and-now, or would he still gaze out windows and worry if Mr. Frodo were unhappy?  _

It was long into the night, perhaps even closer to morning, when she slipped silently into Bag End, hoping Sam had gone to bed. Too stiff and cold to sleep, she went to the kitchen to warm herself with tea. But she saw the glow of candlelight and peeked her head in, not ready to confront Sam yet. 

"Mr. Frodo," she nearly gasped. "Goodness, what are you doing up?"

"I couldn't sleep," he replied, and as he looked at her the candlelight haunted his features, accenting the dark circles under his eyes and his unhealthy pallor. He had wrapped a blanket around himself and gripped a teacup with his right hand; his left was cradled in his lap. 

"You don't look at all well," Rosie said. 

"I'm fine. You don't look well yourself."

"No, I suppose not." She sat down heavily, her seat at the kitchen table being thickly cushioned, and poured out some tea from the pot. "Is Sam asleep?"

"Yes."

She took a deep breath, but could not steady herself. "I've been so frightened," she whispered.  

Frodo looked at her carefully. "You should talk to Sam. You should tell him."

"I have no one I can tell, no one who can tell me what it means..." She surreptitiously dabbed her eyes with her handkerchief. "Did you know Sam had been ill? When you went away?"

"Ill? How do you mean?"

"I don't know. Nobody could tell me...I couldn't even explain it to anyone. But he was ill, up all night and restless with nightmares. He'd say terrible things. Then he came back with you and he was well again. I couldn't make him better; I couldn't do a single thing. But _you_ could."

She stared him down, searching his dark eyes. He sighed, seeming unsettled. "Rose," he began, then stopped, turning the teacup around in his hand. Watching him, Rosie noticed that his hand was shaking. 

"Mr. Frodo?" she asked softly. 

"I would do anything for you to forget what I said, that time in October."

_I love you Sam, I love you. _

She held her breath, not wanting even to acknowledge his words, as she herself had desperately tried to forget them. "I just don't want to see Sam so stricken again."    

Frodo nodded, and perhaps he took her meaning differently, but she felt it didn't matter. 

"He needs you," she said simply. "And I don't know what I'm to do. My pa wants Sam and I to set up a smial of our own, but I see that we can't do that. And how am I to explain it? I don't even understand what it is that hurts Sam so, what he dreamt about that wounds his spirit. What happened on your Journey that has bound you together? What fills his mind with so much worry that he can't come to me and be at ease?"

She wept a little, and was surprised to feel Frodo's hand fold over hers. "The last thing he wants is to hurt you," he said. 

"I know, I know. His heart is pure sunlight."

"He deserves so much," Frodo added, and closed his eyes. A shudder seemed to pass over him.   

"Mr. Frodo?" She wanted to reach out to him, resentment melting away slowly like ice on a March morning. "Sam said you're not well." 

"He shouldn't have to worry over me. You're right, and I wish... He oughtn't to have such a burden as me. I'm sorry, Rosie. Very truly, I'm sorry for what I've done, and what I've taken."

"Well," she said, feeling awkward. "It's not as like you're taking anything he's not trying to give." 

They looked upon each other, eyes full of hurt still unresolved but now less heavy. "I should go to bed, I think," she said.  "And you should try to sleep at least." She squeezed his hand before standing and blew out some of the candles.

Frodo moved to rise, pushing himself up with his right arm. But as soon as he let go of the table he swayed and his legs buckled, his hand reaching out blindly for a stronghold. Before Rosie could react, he fell to the floor like a dead thing. 

"Mr. Frodo! What's the matter?" She went to him and felt his forehead, recoiling at the icy touch. 

"Sam?" Frodo cried out weakly. "Sam?"

She needed to get him warm and comfortable, but in her condition she couldn't carry him to bed. So she put the teacup to his lips, wanting to get something warm inside him, as he curled up and shivered. 

"We can't drink now," he mumbled. "We have to save it, Sam. There's hardly any water left..."

"There's plenty," Rosie told him, a sick feeling in her stomach. She did the only thing she could think of: she took him into her arms and held him tightly.   

"O Sam, I'm glad you're with me." For a moment he was quiet, as if eased in her arms, but soon his face twisted in fear. "But are we hidden? Are we safe? The wraiths are getting closer...I hear them flying above us now..."

"We're safe," she murmured. "Hush, Mr. Frodo, you're just dreaming..." She stroked his hair, desperate to calm him, because she knew of nothing else to help him. He caught one of her hands in his, gripping hard. He wept quietly now, nearly lifeless in her arms. 

"O Sam, let's just rest a while longer. Just a moment, then I'll crawl." 

She gently wiped his tears away, feeling her own spill over. "It's all right, Mr. Frodo. You're safe and I'll look after you."

"You can't carry me all the way up the mountain," he said wearily. "We'll die together."

Rosie was startled and relieved as Sam rushed into the kitchen, falling to his knees beside them. "Mr. Frodo? Mr. Frodo?" he whispered, trying to assess the situation. Sam touched him so gently, so delicately, easing him with quiet words. 

"He's having another turn," Rosie said needlessly, clinging to Sam's arm. "We were talking and he just collapsed."

"I need to get him to bed. Could you get some hot water bottles ready?"

Rosie went to her task, her heart in her mouth. She had a vision of two tiny dark forms, alone and clinging together on a little hill surrounded by fire. It came from the stories that Sam told her in sparse snatches, leaving out whole chapters which became all the more vicious and terrible for their silence. She hadn't thought much of it all at first, but the untold tales were bent on hunting her down, and painted blood upon what little she knew. 

When she brought the bottles to Frodo's room, Sam had already settled him down, his face still drawn and pain-stricken, but resting quietly. Rosie sank into Sam's arms, pressing her face to his neck. "Can you help him?"

"It's all right now," he whispered. "It will pass."

"He's quiet now, but these turns aren't getting any gentler. He needs you, Sam."

"I know."

Then Sam placed his hand over her stomach, and Rosie closed her eyes, concentrating only on the little babe inside her. _Frodo-lad, you won't feel such sadness, adventures or no. No, Frodo-lad, you won't be sad for a moment. _

* * * *

It was an ageless night of drifting, cool March air. Bag End was peaceful and still as the last of the supper dishes were stacked away and the comforting familiarity of pipe-smoke eased Frodo's mind. He sat beside an open window and a closed book, clutching his white gem in his hand, and his thoughts sought Westward. Bilbo would leave one day, to take what peace he earned, and when he did, upon which side of the shore would Frodo stand?  

He began to feel a chill, but so revelled in the sensation of air on his face that he merely pulled a shawl close round his shoulders. Earlier in the month he would not have been able to endure even the slightest breeze, he knew sorrowfully. Earlier in the month he had felt the return of a pain so sharp it seemed completely afresh, instead of a memory of an older wounding. Indeed it had left him paler than usual, even this night, and he was under no illusion that these spells would fade. It was this plain fact that turned his mind to Bilbo, and his decision grew into certainty as the day grew into night. 

It was no flippant choice. He could not be a shadow on Sam's happiness forever. Nor could he stand between him and Rosie, though Sam seemed oblivious to the tension that lingered and twisted between them. Nor could he sit out his days until at last he faded completely, and could no longer see the hopeful light of stars. There was some duty also in his mind to follow Bilbo, as his heart broke to think of the elder hobbit going off on his own, without any of his kin. When he thought of what tied him to the Shire, he thought only of Sam, and even that was a painful bond in the face of his own selfishness. 

He could live out his days yet a little more here in Bag End, but when his book was finished, his path would lead him to the Sea. He knew this in his heart as he longed to hear the crash of its waves and smell its fragrance, to see its vastness and know its power. It came to him in dreams and he welcomed it, however fleeting. 

He was drifting, nodding in a gentle sleep and lulled by clear visions of wind and water when Sam came blustering in. "It's Rosie," he said in a panic. "She's--she's going to--she's having the baby!"

Frodo bolted out of his chair and tried to calm down the frightened hobbit. He offered to run down to fetch the midwife, but instantly Sam was off towards the door to do it himself, and when Frodo yelled after him that he would try to help Rosie in the meantime, Sam whirled around and made a dash for the bedroom where Rosie lay. Realizing Sam was in a poor state, he took his cloak and left for the midwife's smial before Sam could change his mind again. Thankfully the midwife was quick and all business, sternly removing Sam from the birthing-room as soon as she arrived. Frodo settled down for what would likely be a long night's wait. 

They sat together upon a bench in the hall, though Sam could barely sit still. He jumped up to make tea, or tend the fire, or to pace again the length of the corridor. Presently he sat with his head in his hands. Frodo wished he knew how to calm him, but felt it wasn't right to try to distract him with much talk or small errands, so he hoped his presence and reassurances alone could help.  

"Just think, tomorrow Bag End will be packed with visitors. There's so much to be done!"

Frodo laughed kindly. "You've done everything already, Sam."

"Poor Rosie, like as not she'll just want to rest. And the little one, too. I wish we could just keep everyone out."

"I'll guard the door myself until Merry and Pippin get here, then they can take over. And if that's not enough," Frodo smiled, "they can send for horses from the King's stables. They'll be big enough to ride them one of these days."

"That's no lie, they'll be giants next to the baby." 

"I'd say we could send for the King himself," Frodo teased, "but seeing as today is New Year in Gondor, he's probably too busy."

Sam nodded, and Frodo wanted to say so much more--_New Year, he'd breathed, but those words were sterile and bore no tangible reference to that single cataclysmal moment on Sammath Naur. He wanted to say, __look where we are Sam, where beauty and innocence are born, and how far you've walked from the brink of the Cracks of Doom...  _

"I saw those things you put in the nursery for the baby," Sam said, "they're wonderful fine, all of them. But where did you find that little wooden Oliphaunt, if I may ask?"   

Frodo smiled. He couldn't tell him the truth, that he'd wanted to give the small figure to _him_, because Sam loved them so. "I drew a little sketch and had a craftsman carve it for me. I thought the little one would enjoy it."

"You'll have to tell the baby all about the Oliphaunts. You'll tell the baby stories, won't you Mr. Frodo, as soon as it can listen? I mean, beg your pardon, there's so much you can teach the little one, just like Mr. Bilbo used to teach me."

Frodo stared out down the hall, his heart torn, knowing with terrible certainty that he would not see the babe's first birthday. His book was steadily reaching its end, and Sam's child would not have an Uncle Frodo to its memory.  

"Of course I will," Frodo replied very softly, in this season of lies. How many times had he uttered falsehoods to Sam this month, just so he would not be a burden? _I'm fine Sam, don't worry about me...I'm right as rain, it's just a little cold in here..._

Suddenly a wailing cry came from the birthing-room and Sam stood up fearfully, staring at the door. "What do you suppose is taking so long?"

Frodo stood with him, meaning only to stay close as he paced, but his hand strayed. He reached for Sam's shoulders and squeezed, massaging with that devastating combination of tenderness and strength. He could not help himself, for it was all he could do not to embrace him and stroke his hair to comfort the panic and fear from his eyes. He spoke softly in Sam's ear. "The baby is stubborn, like most Gamgees I know."

"I hope not. There's so much I don't know about bringing up hobbit-children. I reckon the Gaffer knows a fair piece, and Rosie's parents too, but I won't know what to do at all!"

"I don't think that's true, Sam." Frodo caught his hand and held it splayed between his own. "The King is not the only one with hands of healing. Maybe you think your mind doesn't know how to care for a little one, but your hands do. They can make anything grow out of the bare earth, and they restored the Shire. And _me_, Sam. Your hands..._kept_ me, like something that ought not to be lost, and brought me home. Now your hands are going to hold and protect and nourish a little one of your very own. That babe will be blessed." 

It took Sam a moment before he could speak, and Frodo admired the colour of emotion on his face. "Mighty kind of you to say so," Sam blushed.

Hand in hand they sat for some time, until within the birthing-room a scream broke into a gasp and was followed by a tiny little cry. Sam's hand crushed Frodo's, clearly restraining himself from bursting right into the room, but shortly the midwife emerged smiling. "It's a girl," she said.

Sam stood up too fast and it took Frodo's supportive arm to keep him on his feet. "A girl!" Sam cried and suddenly Frodo was being embraced heartily. "A girl, can you believe it!"

"You can go in now," the midwife said, "but only for a few minutes, mind. Your Rose needs rest." 

Sam hugged Frodo again, a kiss lost in his hair, and then he went with tears in his eyes into the room where his wife and baby lay waiting for him. Frodo was left standing alone in the hall. He felt his heart would burst. It would be cruel punishment to fall in love with Sam's newborn, to look upon her little face and trace the features that sought to mimic her father's. But he could not keep himself from loving her; no, these last few months he would again bear the ache of a futile passion. He meant to set down some roots again, that when he left the parting would tear and wound him, so he might not depart from his once-rich life in numbness. 

"Mr. Frodo?" Sam said a few minutes later, his face wet but amazed and proud. "O, she's beautiful."

"Of course she is," Frodo said, and kissed his hand. 

* * * *

Bag End, in a short order of months, became a rather sleepless hole. While the infant hobbit was content as they come, still she needed to be fed at all hours of the day, and this was a considerable effort on Rosie's part. Sam, never one to sleep while others were up, awoke with her diligently through the night and did for Rosie and the baby as best as he could, and even if he wasn't needed then he could still pad down to Frodo's bedroom or his study, since Frodo wasn't sleeping either.  

Frodo had given thought to offering his help with the baby, but he felt clumsy and unskilled in handling such a small and delicate being, just as he had never offered to help Sam in the garden. So he came to decide that the best thing he could do was stay out of the way, keep to his writing and make his own meals whenever he remembered. He filled the leaves of his book until finally he brought his history to a devastating height, and then he threw down his pen and for days sat motionless in thought. From the rise of the sun till the setting of the moon he stared down his memory as one watches a funeral pyre.   

It was Cirith Ungol and it had to be written, for he could not toss aside Sam's astonishing deeds. But how he was to write it he didn't know, and he became more and more certain that he never would. He could accept his failing and throw down some words, careless and quick, but that seemed somehow more horrific than not writing it at all. So in the end he did nothing while the thoughts and dreams of it began to mount upon him.  

It was a promising, bright morning in early May, and Sam was tending to his gardening tools and yawning all the while. Frodo watched him through heavy-lidded eyes while nursing a mug of strong tea. Rosie and the little lass were both sleeping, leaving the sun-warmed smial very quiet and peaceful, which was something of a rarity. Frodo and Sam looked at each other and shared another yawn.

"'Tis a walk we need," Sam muttered. "Something as will shake the sleep right off us. I think you're in need of wide-open spaces, Mr. Frodo, and the fresh air will do us both wonders."  

Absently rubbing his stiff neck, Frodo sighed and discovered in himself a thirst for May breezes. There was hope, suddenly, that he could chase off the gathering shadows and feel young under the fledgling blue sky, as if there were some virtue in the very air which he could catch up between his hands. And in that thought was an aching hint of times gone by, when he and Sam could spend an entire day under the sun without a care entering their heads.   

"I think you're right, Sam. I need you to remind me sometimes that there is a real world over the threshold, before I start thinking that the view from my window is but a painting." 

Sam shook his head, admonishing him with a soft tutting noise. "I see I've been letting you keep to the dust for too long. I've a mind to prove to you that the Shire's no painting, so take a little luncheon and we'll be off."

Frodo was happy to do as he was told. Through the hills they went, Sam guiding him easily as if he could have made the trip blindfolded, which doubtless was true. Every now and then Sam would stop, looking at a particular bush or flower with a knowledgeable eye and a gentle hand, and Frodo was heart-warmed that his care extended so far, so deep and so beneficial. They ate as they went, sometimes sitting in the grass and among the flowers, neither one of them suggesting that it was time to turn back. It was growing on evening when they finally crested the highest grassy hill, and stood looking breathless into the valley.

Below, thousands of tall strong trees swayed gently as far as their eyes could see. They were thick with leaves, closely spaced, straight and beautiful. Frodo felt his legs weaken and he trembled before the sheer vastness of Sam's work. 

"It is like a dream. This is your doing," he breathed, "These are your forests." Frodo's spirit wept that Sam, stout-hearted but small, had raised this massive wood with his own bare hands. 

"They didn't ought to get that tall in so short a space of time," Sam said decisively, feigning an indignant expression over his pride and wonder. "I reckon it is some work of magic...I planted them with a bit of earth from the Lady's box, each and every one of them."

"They are your forests all the same," Frodo said decisively. "Look, Sam, look at what you have done!" 

They began to descend into the forest's foot, and as they did the trees came to tower over them. Frodo felt at once very small in their midst but also sheltered and secure, simply because each giant tree was Sam's. And though his eyes were fixed on the trees he was more drawn to his friend than ever, for it seemed his admiration could grow no greater, and would burst him apart. There was so much to love about Sam.

"It's amazing, Sam," Frodo said, and regretted that he had no better words. More quietly he added, "You're becoming a legend in the Shire."

But Sam did not hear him. He walked forward into the thick of the trees, seeking out a bright patch of yellow, and gave a muffled cry. Frodo was fast behind him, and he stopped short when he was close enough to see what it was.  

Sam was near on weeping as he beheld the elven star flowers that blanketed the forest floor. He slowly dropped to his knees and brushed the _elanor_ petals with his hands, shaking his head all the while. "How can it be, Mr. Frodo?" he asked in wonderment, for these flowers had never been seen outside the grass of Lothlorien.

"I don't know," Frodo answered and he too shivered, as unexpected magic would always stir one's soul. "But if I had to guess, I might say it was the will of the Lady."  

"Do you think she heard you, somehow, when you named my Elanor?" 

"I think she'd turn the trees into gold, if that's what you wanted," Frodo whispered, but his words were lost in the rustling of wind and leaves. 

"They're so lovely. I'd like as to fill the nursery with them, but I won't uproot them, not a one. Perhaps folk will come to the forest to see them, and see how rightly my Elanor is called." 

"Even the elves would think she's beautiful," Frodo assured him. "Come to mind, you were a beautiful child too, Sam. Though you must think me silly to say so. You were only six when I came to Bag End." 

"I remember," Sam replied softly.

"Bag End seemed so empty after Brandy Hall--it was all I could do not to scoop you up and feed you sugar cookies and tickle you until the whole Shire was filled with your laughter." 

Smiling, Sam lay back on the grass, careful not to disturb any of the flowers. "And you did, too, as I recall."

Frodo lay down beside him and felt that moment of frozen time, when the sun hovers on the horizon. The image of little Sam, golden and rosy and full of smiles, was one of the dearest things he had left. Bilbo and the Gaffer and probably every other hobbit in the Shire thought it odd that a tweenager, a well-to-do and educated tweenager for that matter, would take up with a six-year-old gardener's son. But Frodo had been shy and lonely and Sam's sweet innocence was irresistible. 

"I followed you 'round till the Gaffer narked on my ear for being such a bother," Sam said. "Sometimes you'd take me over the Shire and teach me things. And then Mr. Bilbo found us looking at his books in the library and he said he'd learn me my letters. You were so happy--or leastaways it seemed to me."

"I was. You never thought me odd for wanting to go on adventures and do unexpected things like Bilbo did."

"I don't know why anybody'd think you queer. I used to watch you reading under the trees and wished I could know all the things that you knew. Sometimes...walking at dusk, you know, you looked like an Elf, and I thought you might grow up to be like Mr. Bilbo and you'd go away to Rivendell all by yourself. It made me feel happy but very sad at the same time."

Frodo felt his throat tighten, and was surprised by the suddenness of his own emotion. "I would have asked you to come with me."

"Honest, Mr. Frodo?"

He nodded, swallowing and forcing his eyes up at the sky, picking out the softly emerging stars. _Would you follow me forever, Sam, if given a chance? And could I let you, somehow, could I claim my greatest wish even as it was handed to me? _

Sam seemed to shift even closer, their very breath mingling in the cooling air of the settling twilight. "We could yet go someday."

It was too much, and Frodo's heart slammed inside his chest. He couldn't read Sam's eyes; he couldn't tell the intent of the hand that reached to touch his arm. A single tear betrayed him, slipping down his cheek. ****

It seemed an eternity they lay thus, away from the rest of the world, just as they had been on the journey. Frodo barely breathed. It was a moment where the scope of possibility lay open, as a field of fruit to be picked. Anything could happen, if one or the other merely leaned a few inches closer. And this too was how it had been. Frodo remembered how their bodies had pressed close each night, how simple and yet how complicated. He still didn't know what it _meant.  _

Sam leaned in, his face beautiful and glowing in the dying light. His fingertips softly brushed against Frodo's face, stroking away his tear. "You don't never have to be alone." 

Frodo tried to reply, but his breath hitched and his lips parted soundlessly. This closeness and tenderness was too intimate for the safety of the Shire. In Mordor it had been mere survival, but this, _this ached of a love too great to name. Could he kiss Sam on the forehead and claim it was only for comfort, or if he kissed him now would he cross the line forever? Frodo was torn and neither of them moved for long moments._

"What's troubled your writing so much lately?" Sam asked finally, his voice gentle yet insistent.

Frodo did not want to speak of it, because the day had been so blissful and this moment was so precious, but he could not lie or pull away from Sam. He did not let his eyes waver. "I fear the memory will engulf me," he murmured. 

"Maybe you ought to take your pen-and-paper outside. Sometimes the sky and flowers can lighten what's fixing to be dark, or so I've found." 

"Sometimes I wish I never had to write it. When will I be able to forget?"

Sam looked upon him with sadness, and Frodo regretted having spoken. He tried to sit up but Sam stopped him. 

"I suppose it's different for me," Sam said thoughtfully. "I don't never want to forget the moment when I found you."

Frodo closed his eyes against tears. He thought he could stand no more, but Sam kept talking. "To be sure, I never had a darker moment in my life as when that foul thing took you and I thought you were gone. But then I got you back, and I never had such a beautiful moment neither. I came so close to never seeing your living eyes again. If it weren't for the Ring I should never have moved from your side, Mr. Frodo, the world had turned so bleak. And that's the stuff of nightmares for sure, but it was like a miracle when I found out you still lived, and everything had changed and there was hope still! I can't explain it rightly and perhaps you think I'm foolish, but my heart nearly swelled out of my chest, if you get my meaning. Then I fought and ran and it was like I was holding my breath the whole time, until finally I got to the top and saw you. And then you were alive and in my arms for real. That was the greatest moment of all."

Frodo shuddered but the feeling had changed, and he was enthralled by a sense of freedom that made him want to leap to his feet. The darkness of his memory shifted, the shadows flickering and fading under the fierce light of Sam's words. He and Sam stood then, and felt the stirring of wind on their bodies, and Frodo thought he was flying with the fast-sailing clouds.  The indigo horizon glowed and Frodo wanted to head towards it forever, the brink unreachable, blissful to run with Sam at his side. 

They faced one another and smiled clumsily through tears. It was sheer beauty that Frodo tasted then, letting his heart fill with the one thing he wanted: a life with Sam, away from memory and time. In this moment it didn't matter whether he was dreaming a fool's dream. He only felt love, and possibility. 

*

TBC. Comments are very welcome! 


	8. The Last Gifts

**In The Grey Twilight**

Does anyone object to shorter-but-more-frequent updates? ^_^  I think that's how I'll be doing this from now on. And don't worry, this chapter is still relatively long.  I've put an A/N about my use of canon at the end, give it a skim if you would be so kind! 

And now, back to my regularly scheduled gratitude.

Inkstain: I'm so indebted to you for your continuous support as I navigate through this difficult time. You're the _best, I hope you know that!__ Would you like to be the honourary owner of this story? It needs to be dedicated to someone! _

Teasel: Your feedback is special to me because I've such respect and adoration for your powerful, artful writing. I can't stress that enough, and I look forward to your next creation, whatever it may be.

*

September came, and it happened that Frodo Baggins began to speak of Bilbo's birthday, for the hobbit would be turning one hundred and thirty-one, this being a most significant age because he would surpass the Old Took. Frodo did little more than drop hints about his plans, as if he were testing out his feelings on the matter, and in fact his mind was churning. For he alone knew the truth: if he wished to see Bilbo again, he should look to the woods of the Shire, now as the leaves were gold. 

He walked out beneath the _mallorn_ tree, watching the first leaves rain about him. He could hear Sam's work-hearty voice singing from up on the hill as he cleared the garden, interrupted from time to time by little Elanor, who at six months could win her father's attention by giggling or grabbing at passing grasshoppers. Suddenly Frodo felt _old_, feeling the coming of autumn even more strongly than Sam did with his gardener's sense. He took up a few fallen leaves in his hands as he slowly circled the silver bark of the tree trunk, thinking, _it's as if their colour became so brilliant in a last, desperate affirmation of the life they'll soon lose. He wanted to throw them upon the wind and let them be caught up forever, their scarlet and saffron hues never fading nor crumbling. _

Frodo felt cold fear in the pit of his belly. His book was finally finished.  

For an instant he saw the future hurtle upon him, pale and blurred as if he were wearing the Ring: he saw a million sunsets over the Shire, while his shining cousins went galloping over the hills and were lost beyond the horizon; and there stood grand stone cities, whose streets the King walked down in escort, his face proud and compassionate; and by his side the fair Queen glided, lovely and laughing; and there was a great fire roaring in a cozy smial, where Sam sat surrounded by beautiful ruddy-cheeked children, a babe in his lap, calling them each by name and ruffling their hair as they brought him a large book to read from. But as for himself, Frodo saw nothing. He heard only wind, arising from a deep, ageless unknown. 

He was tired, very deeply tired, and already he felt a thousand miles away. He looked upon the Shire as if at a great distance, and though he saw the sun strong in the sky, he couldn't feel it on his skin. He knew what he must do, but it meant walking forth into mystery, for the Western realm he could not imagine, nor could anyone tell him what it would mean for a halfling to pass into the Undying Lands.  

The wind picked up and drew through his hair. The air was sweetened by ripe apples, which were being gathered by the barrel-full and peeled, cored, and baked in sugar for thick rich pies. Applesauce and apple muffins and apple butter and apple-concoctions Frodo had never imagined weighed down every table in the Shire. But every now and then Frodo would feel coolness on his face and the apple-aroma was replaced with a sharp salty tang. He soon realized that no one else could smell it and he stopped asking, though at times he still gazed out as if he expected the sea to roar forth from the hills. 

The bright flicker of emblems and the ringing of mail and the steady pounding of hooves snapped him suddenly from his thoughts, sounds which were forever a herald's cry for his cousins' approach. He dropped the leaves in his hands as if guilty of theft, wishing he could escape this moment and all that it would bring. Inevitably his fair cousins appeared, and he saw them as if in a dream, finally comprehending the full truth that he would not see them again. He felt struck by an arrow; he felt as though he bled. Stumbling towards them blindly, he meant to lay his hands upon them and know their presence one last time. 

"Hullo, cousin! We've come unannounced, but look! We brought gifts to make up for it." Pippin dismounted gracefully and gestured to the ponies, which were heavily laden indeed.

Frodo took Pippin's hand, hoping his cousin did not notice how it trembled. Merry joined them, looking at him queerly, and then Frodo knew the bitter taste of secrets. Shaking himself, he forced a smile and laughed exuberantly, clapping Merry on the back. "Now what brings you here? Don't think I'll take you in every time you want a holiday!" 

Merry grinned, seemingly put at ease by Frodo's mirth. "We were recalled to duty and charged to go to Bree, where many packages were waiting under guard. The King has seen fit to send tribute to you, for your birthday, and to Sam as well, belatedly, for Elanor."

"I'm going up to ask Sam for a few lumps of sugar," Pippin announced as his pony butted him gently in the back. "We can have everything unpacked as quick as lightning and you'll see how terribly you've been spoiled!"  

Frodo and Merry made no move to follow him as he went happily up the hill, humming to himself. Frodo's face had fallen into a grimace, unaware, for the last thing he wanted now was tribute from the King. He would always be claimed by words and memories, forcing upon himself a grace he had not the strength to uphold forever.

"The ride was beautiful, Frodo. You should come along tomorrow, and see how wonderful everything is." Merry's eyes leisurely tracked the hills.

_I shall see it soon enough_. _I shall never forget it. _

"We could have a Party," Frodo said with energetic desperation. "A huge Party, just like when Bilbo left. There's enough time, and I've got more than enough mathoms, from the look of the King's packages. You could stay and celebrate, and ring Bilbo's name all over Hobbiton, and give everyone something to remember."

"What's this all of a sudden? And you can't give away the King's gifts before you've even seen them yourself!" Merry's tone was sharp and his eyes were quizzical. 

"_You'd be wanting a party if you broke the Old Took's record. It's only proper."_

"But Bilbo's not coming, is he?"   

"That's never stopped me before. This time I think I won't attend either. I rather like the idea of not being there, it's poetic."

Frodo tried to laugh, but his forced humour fast grew heavy, weakening under the swell of agony it attempted to hold back. Then something was wrenched from him, and as his strength failed he fell against Merry, at last beginning to weep the full weight of his sorrow. For long moments his tears soaked through his cousin's weskit, all the while his mind repeated, _farewell. _

"Frodo?" Merry said softly, rubbing his back. "What's wrong?

After a time Frodo pulled away, wiped his face and wrapped his arms around his own chest. He meant not to answer but Merry was not going to be denied: dear Merry, his trusted cousin and confidant. "My book," he said. "I've finished it." 

"You mean you're going to Rivendell," Merry said without judgement, paled by pity and sadness and hope.

"Yes."

"When?"

"Within the week. I haven't told Sam yet." Frodo's will weakened and again he wept. "I don't know if I can do this."

Merry took his hands, confusion and earnestness mixed in his face. "Frodo, it's not so bad as all that. Find your peace, as you deserve. And Rivendell isn't so very far away, you know."

Unable to hold himself up, Frodo sat upon the ground, choking on his grief. _But I am going farther than dreams can take you. When he had composed himself a little he said, "I am torn, Merry, rent so badly I cannot tell where the better part of me lies. Sam..._Sam _is all I have."  _

Merry knelt with him, his own eyes bright and pained. "Can you truly not bear to stay?"

He sobbed quietly. Had he not asked the same question of himself everyday, always hearing the same answer in the thick of his heart? "I _can't. O Merry, I've tried so hard..."_

"It's all right. Talk about it, if you can. You know you can trust me."

The manner was of ancient times, at Brandy Hall when he and Merry would hold conspiring meetings of mischief and small secrets. When did one stop revealing one's heart to a trusted friend? For Frodo had never once explained about Sam. He sniffled, thinking there was a chance Merry had felt the same impossible longing that starved his own heart. After all, Pippin had been a little young and rash, and Merry must have had a moment when he was afraid to reach out to him. 

"Sam _glows_, he's pure and perfect and no hobbit will ever match his quality. He's like a rare blossom that is so cherished one wants to shelter it, and keep vigil against weeds, all the while afraid of causing it to wither."  

_You will corrupt him. He will wither._

His throat was on fire and tears still flooded his cheeks, dripping off his chin. "I said we're so close it's painful, and that's true, but I want so badly to touch his face."

Merry tried to soothe him, patient and trying not to cry himself. "It's not wrong, Frodo. You love him and there's nothing wrong with that. _You love him."_

"I love him, O, I love him." He took a deep, shuddering breath. "But it's a dream, another wound to pain me. I have to tear him out of me, like _this." He held up his right hand, the missing finger suddenly an overwhelming absence. _

"Surely it doesn't have to be this way. If you leave without talking to him, and telling him what you've just told me, you are committing a grave crime against yourself!"

"But I've no right to these thoughts. I've no right to what's hidden _here," and his fist thumped against his heart. "These feelings can't be so pure as is worthy of Sam. It can't be the same kind of love as between you and Pippin. Because I _wanted_ the Ring, Merry. I loved it. And what if that's the same way I love Sam? I've seen something in Bilbo that I never wanted to see, when I wore the Ring around my neck and he wished he could have it for himself again. It was a horrible monstrous thing, it wasn't Bilbo at all, it was just pain and need and torture. What if, what if I go to Sam and I tell him that I love him and I've wanted him for myself, and __that is what he sees?" _

Extinguished, he felt the ground tilt beneath him, as if rejecting his right to stand upon it. Merry had him by the arms, his face reflecting horror, and Frodo cringed away. 

"No," Merry breathed unsteadily. 

"Mr. Frodo?" It was Sam's voice, cheerful and polite, calling out as he tramped down from the hill. "There's a letter from the King, and it's addressed to both of us." 

Frodo spun around, feeling nauseous. Sam's smile trembled and collapsed with concern as he took in Frodo's tear-streaked face, and Frodo panicked, searching for a single word that would halt the disintegration of his world.  

"I should check on Pip," Merry said, already retreating. "He's probably piled everything right in your foyer." 

As soon as Merry was out of sight, Sam came to him, looking torn between embracing Frodo and wiping away his tears. Clumsily he tried to do both while Frodo stood motionless. 

"You can tell your Sam what it is," he whispered, fretting.

"It was just a passing thing. It's gone now." Frodo paused, breathing and feeling Sam's hands on his arms. "You said we had a letter?"

"Aye, and you ought to come and see all the marvellous things that came with it! Not a one would fit among ordinary hobbit-stuff...it's all as like your mithril coat. But don't let me prattle on so! Come up and see."  

"Wait, Sam," Frodo said suddenly, stopping him. "I've a bit of news." _Go on, get it over with. Make it so there's no turning back. "I'm going to Rivendell. It's Bilbo's birthday on Thursday and I want to be with him. He must be very lonely, Sam." _

Sam was thoughtful and pain was in his eyes, but it was not so different from how he looked at the sky, when the sun at last set. "I reckon he is. Well, you said we'd go someday, Mr. Frodo, and I suppose now is as good a time as any." 

"I know you can't go very far or for a long time. But I was hoping you could see me off, if Rosie would spare you."

Sam cast his attention up at the leaves of the _mallorn tree, seeming to gaze through thin air and see nothing. "You mean to stay for a long spell, do you?" he asked faintly._

"Yes, Sam. I'll be leaving Bag End to you, along with all that I have and might have had. That means the Red Book too."

"You've finished your book?"

He nodded. "The last pages are for you." 

Something escaped Sam's lips, something very like a gasp, and tears stood in his eyes. In a blur he enfolded Frodo in his arms, a soft grace of his lips against Frodo's cheek. After a moment Frodo hugged him back, fierce and trembling. Sobbing met his ears and he was stunned to feel Sam's shoulders shake so hard, alarmed that Sam was breaking down completely. 

"Sam, Sam," Frodo whispered.  "Don't take on so."

Slowly the tide of Sam's anguish rolled back, his breath hitching like the scrape of driftwood on rocks. "What's left for you to hold onto, when you're passing everything on?"  

"Sam?" Frodo croaked in question. 

"If you mean there'll be no more tales for yourself, then there's naught I could do that'll be worth telling either. I don't mean to do insult to your gift, and mayhaps I'm speaking out of turn, but I never thought you'd work so hard and long on your book only to pass it over."

The wind cooled the damp patch on his neck where Sam's tears had fallen. Dignity, that simple and final strength of mortals, gentled him and bade him speak softly, self-assured but without defence. He could have begged Sam to show him an alternative, having faith that a wise hobbit was burrowed beneath the layers of his humbleness and simple talk. But now he found calm, where just moments earlier he had been fraught with the terror of his decision, and his calm lay in the immediacy of his compassion for Sam. For he saw that Sam was afraid, not knowing what would become of his master and anxious that he might diminish, and these fears mirrored his own. Frodo felt Sam's tears and remembered what called him to the sea: peace, and peace alone could take him there, for he must have faith in peace above all else. His own fears seemed distant in his need to ease Sam's. 

"I think our book is not so important now as it shall be in the future, when all memory of the great danger has passed. So I leave it to you, for I am finished now and my part is over, but you will see the Shire through its best years ahead, and your part in them needs to be recorded. For me rest has been but a distant thought until now, and rest is what I have a mind to do. I am going to keep company with Bilbo, and hear more elven-songs than I can ever write down, and I believe I shall be happy." He smiled, honest and true, and added, "I shall have hope, Sam, hope enough to hold onto." 

As if he had been called, Frodo turned towards the smial, and when the silence between them grew long enough that he did not expect Sam's reply, he began to walk slowly over the cool grass.   

"Mr. Frodo?" Sam whispered after him, so quietly it was implicit that the words ought not to be said but _felt_ instead. "What are those might-have-hads you've left me?" 

_Love_ came forth. In an instant it was the only thing that existed, just love alone. It thundered in the air and crashed through the trees, whipping through the grass and pounding in his blood. The whole sky was coloured with it, shining brightly on Sam's skin and glowing in his eyes. Frodo was overwhelmed by the sheer force of his insight, knowing that the sunset too would cry _love_ and the shimmering stars would sing it. His hands twitched, empowered by the immensity of his emotion and suddenly feeling warm and strong and beautiful. He came to Sam and his hands reached out: they met with warm skin, they drew across Sam's face. It was a shattering caress, burning intensely but short-lived like a falling star as his fingers swept down from Sam's brow and over his cheek, sliding under his jaw and alighting on his neck, finally falling upon Sam's chest, where his hand lay still for several heartbeats.

_This I leave to you_. But there were no words. 

He was about to retreat, forcing his hand away from the intimacy of Sam's breast, which quivered slightly with the pull of breath and the pulse of blood. Then Sam placed his own hand over Frodo's, pressing it to his chest where his heart thumped hard, and their eyes locked in some sort of incommunicable message. 

Frodo could not see through Sam's eyes to the very swell of his thoughts, as Sam's hazel gaze yielded nothing but mystery, and he dared not break the beauty of the moment with questions and appeals. Yet soon he found that it was enough, for Sam's accepting and silent response brought a hope so pure it could hold him steadfast while he was yet East of the shore. And he came to know that there was a greater hope to be had, one that could hold him for eternity, if he could but tell Sam all the feelings of his heart and never let him answer.

*

TBC. I hereby promise more frequent updates! And as always, feedback is very welcome.  

A/N:  I need to explain something about my use of canon. The premise of my story, from the start, has been "What if Tolkien made Frodo and Sam fall in love?" As such, the whole thing is kind of an A/U, because obviously it's not what Tolkien intended. And there have been some departures from canon: for instance, Merry and Pippin's marriage. I've used canon as much as possible, out of my love and respect for the books, but I don't want anyone to be surprised or disappointed if something unexpected were to happen. ^_^ 


	9. Journey's Eve

**In The Grey Twilight**

*

After a final double-check of his pack, Samwise set it neatly by the foot of his bed. "Now what have I yet to do?" he fretted to himself, as he had much to prepare for his trip with Mr. Frodo.  From there he padded into the sitting room, where he could hear Rosie in the kitchen, washing up the supper dishes. It was the treasure-box he was after. 

The small trunk was put to rest respectfully, but it did not command any presence in the shadows of the room. Sam knelt before it and took a little key from his pocket, hesitating, then opened it with care. Firelight glimmered on the objects within, and for a long time Sam merely looked upon them. All of them were at once strange and wonderful, familiar and foreign, for they bore witness to their deeds in the war. Sam took out his sword and set it aside, for he was leaving tomorrow he had a mind to bring it along, but he did not close the box yet. 

Memories and visions glowed up at him, as if he were looking into Galadriel's mirror. He knew Frodo did not like to look at the things inside but Sam was troubled, thinking Frodo would have packed up his treasures to take to Rivendell. Everything lay untouched: the silver circlet that had been placed on his head in Ithilien, the Lady's glass, his mithril shirt, and Sting. Then there were Sam's things, the garden-box from the Lady among them, plus new items for them both, tokens from the King that shone brightly. Sam picked up the mithril shirt and held it out, taking in the feel of it, and remembering how it had saved Frodo from spear and arrow until at last it was stolen from him. Miraculous mail it was indeed, for it had been light and almost like silk against Frodo's skin, and when Sam cast his arms around Frodo it had never felt like he was embracing cold, unyielding armour. That was lucky, for Sam could not bear to think of Frodo being burdened further, or separated from the simplicity of feeling Sam's arms about him. He put the little shirt in his lap and then took out the Lady's glass. 

Secretly he thought it was the most beautiful object of all, so pure and lovely it was. He remembered its pale, shimmering light, like a lonely star warmed by the company of a watcher. That was just like Mr. Frodo, rare and dear and eternal, and Sam's breath caught as the image grew in his mind. _There's naught to describe it, for there's naught so beautiful. If hope were something as you could see, that's what it would look like.   _

With the glass still in his hand he peered again into the box, looking now at the things the King had sent. He did not touch them, and he shook his head at them, frowning, for he felt they were wrongly given.  

_You are to be honoured_, the King had written, _far more than I can ever accomplish in all the years I shall reign. It is to remind you of my debt that I present you with these gifts. _

The words pained him. Sam had helped and fought and done his best, but he'd never had to make a real sacrifice. He'd lost a few pounds maybe, but that was easily got back, not like what Frodo had given. Why ought he be thanked for something he had wanted to do, and had cost him nothing? All this talk of honour and debts was nonsense, for it was Frodo alone who was owed. If Sam had an easy and happy life now it was because of Frodo, and his master had paid for it with his own flesh and spirit besides. 

In his hand, the little phial began to glow softly. Startled, Sam stared at it, remembering suddenly what Frodo had said to him under the _mallorn tree. __I am going to keep company with Bilbo, and hear more elven-songs than I can ever write down, and I believe I shall be happy. I shall have hope, Sam, hope enough to hold onto. _

"The trouble with you is that you never really had any hope," Sam muttered to himself. "He can be healed yet, don't you see? As long as he has hope we'll keep going. We'll go to Rivendell and I'll stay with him, and maybe the Elves can help him. The quest's not over yet, and if you help him be happy, you'll have done the greatest thing you can."

The phial glowed brighter still, and for a moment it almost seemed to blind him, before it faded away altogether. It was like a dream, it happened so swift. But he was assured now of what he had to do.

"Sam?" Rosie said from the kitchen. "Don't you go checking that pack again. I've made you some cornbread to take, now come along and have a bite."   

Jarred from his thoughts Sam closed up the box, having put everything away except his sword, and went into the kitchen. He accepted a bit of cornbread in one hand and the dishtowel in the other. 

"Don't you stay up all night either. A full night of sleep is worth a forgotten errand."

"I have more to do yet." Sam set to drying the dishes, wondering how to tell Rosie his plans. "This trip is right important, I reckon. Mr. Frodo will be comforted in Rivendell. I know you don't care much for Elves but if anything can lift Mr. Frodo's spirits, it'll be the Elves for sure."

Rosie nodded with stern approval. "It's good for him to get out of the smial. And since he's not got a care for normal hobbit-doings, he might as well take up where he fits in."

Sam shifted, frowning. This wasn't going as well as he'd hoped. "But Rose dear, there's something else besides. I've made up my mind to stay with him a while. He's only asked me to see him off but I'm awfully anxious, seeing as it's coming on _October sixth_, remember."

Redness crept into Rosie's hard-set face. "Won't those Elves take enough care of him? I don't see why you have to stay."

"He might try to keep it to himself, he's done it before. Or maybe he'll be out travelling, and no one will be there to help him. He needs me."

The dishes were forgotten. Rosie faced him, tears of betrayal in her eyes. "What if I need you? What if Elanor needs you?"

Sam suddenly he felt very cold, as if all the fires in the smial were blown out by a blast of frigid wind. And then heat rushed up from within, curling around his limbs and flooding his face, as if he were sweating in the sun. He backed away, upset, staring out the window with the soft twilight view. 

Words tumbled forth unbidden. "He's my master, and it seems so's he's been since I can remember. I promised myself to his service. What's more, I promised myself to _him_. I went all the way to Mount Doom to take care of him. I think I can help him, I believe he can be healed yet, and so for me the journey isn't over."

"Just duty, Sam, nothing else?" Rosie asked in a whisper. Sam found he could not answer. He evaded her searching gaze and went to the nursery, watching Elanor sleep. Finally he began to sing softly to her as his feelings battered him like a gale-storm wind.     

* * * *

Late that night Sam awoke to Elanor's little cry, and he went to lift her from her cradle. He fussed a bit, wondering if she were hungry and whether he ought to feed her. But as he held her to his chest and rocked her, kissing her tiny curls, she quieted almost instantly in Sam's arms. Still Sam hummed a lullaby over her, and when she lay limp and peaceful in his lap, he returned her carefully to her little nest of blankets. Softly he padded down the hall and couldn't help himself from stopping outside Frodo's door. Pressing on the door and peeking inside, he froze in dismay: the bedclothes were rumpled but Frodo was not there. Sam tried the study next, expecting to see him fallen asleep over his desk, but it was empty. The bathroom, the kitchen, the living room--all were dark and still as graveyards. 

_He's gone, he's left without me!_

Gasping he opened the front door and then he saw him, a pale ghostly figure in a rumpled white shirt glowing under the moonlight. He was stooping as he walked, as if looking for something along the ground. Sam stepped back into the smial only long enough to grab a cloak, for there was a biting chill in the air and Frodo was barely clothed; then he stumbled out toward him. A sick nervous tension beat through his body. 

"Mr. Frodo?" Sam stood over him now. Frodo's face was dark in the shadow and his hands dug into the dirt. Swallowing hard, Sam draped the cloak over his slender shoulders and fumbled with the clasp. Frodo looked like he had tried to dress himself while still asleep, as his braces were twisted over his thighs and some of the buttons on his shirt were overlooked.  His voice breaking with helplessness, Sam pleaded, "Let's go inside, Mr. Frodo." 

Frodo's unnatural snarl cut through him: "I've lost it...it must have fallen off...or someone stole it...it's _gone--I have to find it!"_

Without thinking, Sam slid off his wedding ring and held it out to his master, the gold band glimmering in his trembling hand. "Here it is," he said, and Frodo snatched it up, holding it with painful desperation to his chest. 

"O," he said, "oh, I thought it was gone for ever." 

"It's yours_,_" Sam affirmed awkwardly, caught trying to make a lie into truth. "Come, master. It's late. Let's go home and to bed."    

Frodo allowed himself to be led through the field towards Bag End. Sam took him into his room and unclasped his cloak, fixing the bedclothes and steering Frodo to his bed. "There now, there now," Sam whispered.  "You need your rest." 

Slowly Frodo got into the bed, his eyes beginning to close. "You sleep too, dear Sam," he mumbled. "We'll be safe."

Sam stood over the bed. He couldn't possibly leave him. And he admitted, as a simple quiet fact, that he didn't want to. He wanted to lie down with Mr. Frodo as he had so many times on their quest. He wanted to _feel _like he was protecting him. Shyly, wondering if he were somehow making a mistake, he climbed into bed with Frodo and moulded his body around the older hobbit's back, holding him like a precious treasure to his chest. One hand cradled his master's stomach; the other reached into his hair, gently stroking. Frodo's breathing was deep and calm and his hand loosened its grip on the little ring. Sam carefully picked it up and, after a thought, put it into Frodo's breeches-pocket lest he search for it again in the night. 

Sam pressed a tender kiss to Frodo's neck. "_May you life safe in the arms of love," he mumbled as sleep began to settle over him. "I love you, Mr. Frodo, whether or no."_

And so when he woke again weak morning-light was glowing around the curtains.  Frodo was sound asleep pressed against him, but now one of his hands gripped Sam's. Ever-so-gently, Sam pulled out of his grip and slowly sat up. He looked down at the small pack on the floor and remembered that they were going off today; absently he went to Frodo's desk and started putting things to order. The Red Book lay there, _his now, and thoughtfully he began to flip through its pages. _

He was looking at the picture of the Doors of Durin when something fluttered out and alighted on the floor. A small white envelope, with a bit of writing on the front: _For Samwise Gamgee..._

Sam tensed. A letter for him? Why had Mr. Frodo hid it here? Though painfully curious he was reluctant to open it. Frodo usually did things for a good reason. 

He looked back at Frodo lying asleep on the bed. That ancient, unnamed emotion swelled up in him; something like when he leaned in to kiss Frodo's neck and he could smell his sweet dark hair, and feel the living warmth of his body. Like when Frodo opened his eyes and bright blue flashed at him, finer than any cornflower Sam had ever seen; finer than the clearest sky or the deepest water.  That odd little twinge in his heart when he touched Frodo's shoulders though his soft, light shirt. Like the warmth in his belly when his master smiled at him.  

Swallowing an impulse to go to him, if only to smooth back his hair and listen to his sleeping breath, he clutched the letter to his chest and went out to the garden instead. He felt it was urgent to read what words Frodo might write for him. He sat out in the dirt and dew, not conscious of the fact that he was hiding, and opened the envelope with unsteady hands. 

_Dear Sam, _

_I know you will devour our book for its songs and stories, so I suspect it will not be long before you find this letter. I shall not leave unsaid the depth of thoughts that toss within me, though no more will I storm you with my sharp confessions before I have departed. Many drafts I have written and fed to the fire, trying to mix honesty and dignity onto the page, and even now my heart pounds but I am resolved. I have carried my silence far too long, and at last I am tired. As I write this you are singing little Elanor a lullaby, so soft my own eyes begin to drift closed. Tomorrow we set off, but you don't know I'm leaving you forever. _

_Which are the right words, the strong words which can bear my meaning across the distance between us, and the light words that will not burden you or trouble your heart? 'Tis a hobbit's way to speak lightly and jest of matters grave, but I can ill afford such luxury. I must make my thoughts known; I must speak plainly. I wish to be like a clear pond under your eyes, a pond that has stilled and come to rest, revealing the rippled sand and rocks at its bottom for you alone to see.  _

_I often wonder how you remember the time we have spent together. I do not think I shall ever know. But I must tell you how I remember it, now as the hour grows late._

_I walked into danger with Samwise Gamgee, my friend of friends. It was not a journey I would wish upon my worst enemy, let alone he who meant the most to me, but he came bravely and without complaint. As I felt myself beginning to falter he gave me his strength, and upon him I hung my very life. My errand was terrible and he and I did not expect to return. Together we drew nearer to a fiery end and I took what comfort he could offer, clinging to him as one who is drowning. It was comfort freely offered, and he would have offered me his own life if it were needed. He was strong, his spirit unmatched by any I have ever met. We walked in ugly, filthy lands and he was the most beautiful thing in the world. I remember settling against him in sleep, out in the forbidding wilds, and my last fading thought was of being safe in each other's arms for the rest of our lives. When I remember our travels across the River Anduin, and Emyn Muil, and Mordor, I recall a love so great it comes wordless to my mind. _

_The task needed love, that's simple enough I suppose. Ours was both pure and binding, for the journey stripped us to our bones, and there we were joined, fully revealed to each other. Hand in hand we stood at the end of the world, but I did not fear because my Sam was with me. When, beyond all hope, we woke safe in the __land_ of ___Men__, the world was given back to us but I found that all I wanted was Sam.      _

_I knew then that I loved you more than friendship, more than family. I knew then that I was in love with you. _

_Long have I battled with these thoughts. At first I thought you might feel the same, or something nearly the same, for suddenly our closeness seemed to cross a line. I began to believe that our journey had brought us beyond friendship and bound us together, and I wanted nothing more than to become closer still. Brand-new feelings came to me, thoughts of sharing sleep with you, wanting to hold you and touch you and kiss you. I let myself dream, for I thought our journey had brought us so far._

_Yet we drifted. Here in safety the desperate comforts we shared on the road were out of place. I could not bring myself to your bed, nor could I find strength to speak. I wish I had spoken, Sam, but I thought we had as much time as we wanted. But time alone let my feelings grow confused. I did not want to push you, for I knew that want and love could be a terrible thing. I had tasted such love. I was sickened with myself and I felt that all the good in me was consumed by the Ring. I needed you to show me that my love was still beautiful, that my love was yet untouched by evil.      _

_Then Rosie came, and I had to let you go. I knew you deserved the best, and I knew I could not give you all that you're worthy of. You had already sacrificed so much for me, so I dearly wanted you to be happy now that you were at home. Please know that I just want you to be happy, Sam. My love has tainted our friendship, it's torn you in two, it's threatened your marriage, and I cannot bear to burden you further. I think of the children you'll have, and you'll be Mayor of course, and you'll read things out of the Red Book and be wise and beautiful to the end of your days._

_I must let go of these secrets, as I shall soon be letting go of everything else. I need to let you know, irrevocably, what you mean to me; how my every breath is indebted to you, and how your sweet devotion ignited in me a flame that shall never burn dark. Of course there is more, for I find myself in love with everything about you. You have no idea how extraordinary you are, and sometimes that saddens me. But you were never one to think about yourself, as I know from experience, and I can only hope this letter awakens something in you; insight or self-worth or possibility. _

_Please let not my words trouble you. I am sorry if it seems a cruel thing to read these words after I have gone, when you have no way to answer them. Let them fall if you must; then we shall both let go and pass on. I shall find healing and peace over the Sea, and you must be healed and whole in the Shire. The book is closing for us. I cannot bear to think of how I shall miss you, but I have thought deeply and I know in my heart that I cannot stay. Dear Sam, I love you; if you care for me, do me one last thing and always remember this. _

_~Frodo_

Sam was breathless, stunned and shaking. It couldn't be true...and yet his heart knew better, for the words of longing and pain burned into his memory. _Yes, his heart affirmed, as if a recognition of an age-old truth, as if it were written in the tilled soil of his many years. _Frodo loved him_. And Frodo was leaving him. He was shaking so hard he had to stop himself from accidentally tearing the precious paper in his hands. Finally he folded it up and put it inside his shirt. He walked back into the smial and leaned on the kitchen table for a long moment, feeling a sort of drunken numbness wash over him. But Frodo's face kept flashing into his mind. Frodo's fine skin. Frodo's eyes. Frodo's dark hair. How often had he wanted to touch him, how often had he wanted to hold him in sleep, without stopping to think if it were _love_, and what it meant? How badly had he wanted to have now the closeness they shared then, but to have such love free of fear, to give to each other as freely as they had in danger, only to do so now when they were safe? How had he not known? _

_I love him_. _I love him and he loves me, and he's leaving._

_*_

TBC. Comments are welcome as always. 

A/N: I stand corrected! Frodo/Sam _is_ canon. And thank you to everyone, for being encouraging and letting me share this with you. You make it worth it.  


	10. Setting Off

**In The Grey Twilight**

*

She woke alone that morning, the silence jolting her from sleep as surely as if she had been called. Yet she was greeted by mere emptiness and with fear she arose, feeling that life had passed her by while she slept.  "Sam?" she asked of the lonely corridor, her voice but a whisper. She felt cool air pour into the smial and saw with dread that the front door stood open. Suddenly Bag End seemed like it had been robbed, and maybe she too were a thief, only she came too late and everything was gone.  She stepped lightly, as she always did, ghosting round the corners.

_Is this what it will be like when he is gone? _

"Sam?" she whispered again, falling to a halt, afraid to move.  

He appeared suddenly from out of the kitchen and they both started, the distance between them gaping like an open wound. 

"Good morning, Sam," Rosie's voice came, sounding strained and quaking to her ears. "I thought maybe you left."

"No, I...I had to help Mr. Frodo last night. He was sleepwalking." His eyes flickered away, tumbling over the shadows, finally falling on the open door and he went urgently to shut it. Yet the chill in the smial lingered, like a stone sealed with frost, and she realized Sam had not bothered to light the kitchen hearth. She looked upon him and saw that he had neither washed nor changed, and his manner was strange. She was reminded of Yule and she was afraid.   

"What is it?" she asked, the words bursting from her tight throat.  "What's wrong? Why was the door open?"

"I just came in from the garden, and I'm a bit tired, is all." 

Still she felt like she were plummeting down an endless well, grasping at thoughts to break her fall. "Sam? Has Mr. Frodo taken ill?"

"No, I reckon 'twas just a spell. I'm going to let him sleep, and bring up the ponies so everything will be ready when he wakes."

"And I suppose the fires will light themselves and breakfast will appear from a cloud of smoke. Is there a tale like that in Mr. Frodo's book?" She smiled despite herself, smoothing back her hair and marching to the kitchen, hands scrambling to light the hearth, and when that was done she went to the mantel in the sitting room, where Sam kept his pipe, and she brought it to him. The kettle she set out next, and by the time she went to the pantry, she was frantic. Her hands shook and the eggs almost ended up on the floor rather than in the skillet. Meanwhile Sam had dropped into his favourite chair, his form motionless and his mind unreachable. She took the pan from the heat and put the eggs aside, for she wasn't hungry anyway.  

"Sam, Sam," she murmured, not expecting him to listen, "the smial is full of thieves."  

Suddenly she wanted to drag him from the chair and run away, but she knelt before him instead, touching his knee softly. "You oughtn't go, Sam, if he's unwell and you're tired out. Why don't you stay?"

"He's wanting to leave today."  
"I bet if you don't wake him up he'll sleep all afternoon.  You said yourself it's coming on October, and healing or no you oughtn't set out when he could fall ill any day. Let it be. Just please stay."

"Rose-dear, you don't understand."

"Then _help_ me, _tell me!" She was standing over him now, bent but taught, coiled tight, nearly shouting. "Make me understand!"_

"Don't, Rose, you'll wake him…"

She looked about to scream, but her mouth snapped shut. Then, all energy seeming to drain out of her, she said, "Do you love him?"

A long time passed. She thought they had never stared into each other's eyes for so long. He nodded, almost imperceptibly.   

She closed her eyes, no longer able to escape it. But there was no shock or surprise, having known and ignored it for so long, and she found among her frustration not only resignation but measured acceptance as well. For she _knew they needed each other, as maddening as it was, though exactly why was obscured.   _

"We've a bond, you know," he said quietly, looking honest and plain. "We entered into something too difficult for us to do--an errand that couldn't be done--and we did it, only by binding ourselves together, so as we could never be apart again."

She had to learn to breathe all over again. Sam had turned his face down, but then he stood, taking her arms at the elbows and drawing her close. "It had to happen. Can you see? I love you, Rose, and I meant to love only you forever. I didn't know how fast and hard we were tied, Mr. Frodo and I, but I should have known and I'm sorry." 

She was weak-kneed, only his strong arms kept her from sinking to the floor. "Tell me, Sam," she said hoarsely. 

"Tell you what?"

"Everything. The War, I mean. That strange fairy story Mr. Frodo is writing, about monsters and evil." 

He shifted her in his arms, but she stole back her strength and snatched at his wrists, as if he might escape. He eased them both onto the couch. "I'd rather you went on thinking it was a fairy story, as it were, than believe so much evil could be real."   

_It's too late. It's too late._ She had seen hints of all the evil that was possible--evil worse than Sharkey's rules, seemingly--lurking in a missing finger or a scar or a shudder or a cry in the night.   

"When you were but a lad you memorized every story you ever heard, and I reckon you went on telling them to anyone who'd listen. Then you learned your letters so you could read them yourself, and gather a bit of wisdom like wildflowers in a jar. Remember your little corner in your brothers' room? I do. You had flowers all round your tiny cot, and scraps of paper with words you'd copied out yourself. And I thought it was all rather queer, but you said you might teach me to read. I remember it clear as yesterday, and if you're going to go back on that, if you're going to keep the truth to yourself, then I don't think I know you anymore."   

Sam looked startled by her fierceness, staring at her with some mixture of love and fear. After a while he simply breathed, "It's a long tale."

"I expect it is."

"It's not my story, Rose, I don't know how to start, or what to say. I can only tell you what bits I know."

She just nodded, silent and waiting, and in the end he set himself to the task. "The trouble is," he said by way of beginning, "you have to believe everything is real. I'm going to tell you about things you've never seen or heard tale of before, and some parts are strange and some are magical, and you're going to have to believe it's all true. Elsewise it won't mean anything, if you follow me." 

"I'll believe you, Sam."

And so he started.

* * * *

Sam was gone, having left to see to the ponies, but Rosie had not yet moved from the couch, where she wiped her eyes on her handkerchief. She felt spent, utterly overwhelmed, assailed by her imagination which flashed parts of the tale over and over again, blinding her from all else. Sam had spoken with great emotion and the occasional tears in his eyes had released her own, but now what she felt was some kind of awe, wanting to know _how, how had such things happened_? It was a foreign world, distant, and perhaps her family had a right not to care, but Sam had brought it home to her and coloured it with familiarity. And that it was _real_, that was like someone visiting a star and coming back to tell about it, so wondrous and hard to fathom.

_How had they done it? How had ordinary hobbitfolk get caught up in it, and how had they seen it through to the very end? _   

The only clear thought in her head was that she wanted to see Mr. Frodo, as if laying her eyes upon him would bring to life the images in her mind. She found herself drawn to his room, half-afraid, wanting to ask him a thousand questions and knowing she'd never ask them. She wanted to weep over his hands, she wanted to peer long into his eyes, with ignorance and understanding all at once.  

He was making up his bed when she entered, and she went to help him. Together they straightened the sheets and tucked them neatly, in silence. She stole short glances at him but he seemed so _ordinary, _carefully smoothing his pillows and looking as mild and gentle as she always knew him. He was just himself, in a way she could not explain, a quiet and intellectual gentlehobbit with ink on his fingers and books at hand.  

"Sam told me a remarkable tale," she said. "I feel as like I'm dreaming, so caught in the strange world he built in my mind."

Frodo smiled kindly, nearly chuckling. "What story did he tell?"

"He called it _Nine-fingered Frodo and the Ring of Doom_."

He looked startled, his mouth open and his eyes looking like the depths of a well. As a child she had pulled the water-bucket up as efficiently as her brothers, but she never peered down the dark shaft for fear of being swallowed up somehow, falling and drowning. A sudden shadow passed over her thoughts like a wraith. She saw fire, an Eye Sam had fumbled to describe. Frodo had begun to pace a little and she regretted disturbing him, for she was imagining now what it had been like in the nightmarish spots of his journey. She began to picture his terror.

Upset, she focussed on the pendent hanging from his neck, a subtle gleam that was more enchanting than simply beautiful--in fact, Sam had used it to describe the glow of Elves passing through the woods. Knowing only that it had belonged to the Queen and that it had some healing power, she thought it would be a safe and perhaps comforting topic.  

"I don't mean to pry," she said carefully, "but one thing Sam didn't tell is the story of your gem."

"Sam doesn't quite know that story," Mr. Frodo replied, and Rosie thought he would say no more.  

"Are there many stories he doesn't know?"

"No, but there are a few."

"He's very glad you're going to Rivendell. I can't see that anywhere, even an elven-place, would be more peaceful than the Shire, but Sam has such hope. He thinks he can help you..." She broke off, unsure of herself, realizing that neither hobbit had been completely open with the other. For a moment she had some vision of the terrible complexity of situation. "I hope you're not letting him hope for naught. I mean, I hope you're not holding back tales he needs to hear."

Frodo went a bit pale, but recovered. "You are wise," he said, surprising her, "and you have shown me much kindness, for which I am grateful. I mean not to harm anyone."

As he bent to unlace his pack, Rosie said quickly, "I know you haven't harmed anyone, Mr. Frodo."

Mr. Frodo appeared to pay her no mind, taking Sting from his pack and holding it out to her. "I offered it to Sam once, but he wouldn't take it. I think I would like you to have it, Rose." 

"It's very fine, but what am I to do with it?"

"Here, you hold it like this." He laid it in her hands and folded her fingers around the hilt. In just a few moments the foreign weapon felt comfortable in her grasp and she raised her arm a bit, moving the blade slowly through the air. 

"It knew many adversaries," Mr. Frodo continued. "In this age I hope it will meet no more, but that it should serve you well."

She felt emboldened; blood rushed through her thickly. "A pity you never took up this sword and rode out hard on some noble-looking pony. Folk would listen to you then, I'd warrant. They'd have all the more reason to call you mad, but they'd respect you."

She smiled at him, suddenly captivated and enthralled, but Mr. Frodo looked sad and old and weary. "I know I'm supposed to care what others think, Rose. But I am tired and I've grown to resent calls of duty. Even writing my book seemed to me a task too great to bear. I do not wish to carry _anything ever again, and I am sorry if I am supposed to do more, but I must leave it for others. So Sting I leave to you, and one day perhaps you'll give hobbitfolk something to listen to, for me." _

She hardly knew what to say, and so she said nothing, but thanked him with her eyes and held the sword reverently. 

* * * *

Sam patted old Bill softly on his brown flank while Tom Cotton secured Strider's saddle. Tom looked like he had something on his mind, and Sam was very thankful that he wasn't the type to speak up, because he could guess his thoughts well enough. Still, when Sam handed him a pack to settle on Bill, he met Tom's eyes and said sternly, "Now you look after your sister while I'm gone, and don't let her want for nothing."

Tom glared for a second but nodded. "She and the little one will be well taken care of at home." He put a slight stress on the word _home. _

"And I'm right grateful, Tom," Sam said. "But my Rose is a strong, strong lass, maybe stronger than anybody knew. I don't want anybody standing in her way, as it were."

"You're talking queer," Tom grumbled under his breath, and Sam ignored it, going to the smial to see that everything was ready. It was coming on noon and running errands had been keeping his heart and mind occupied, but now he found himself waiting for Mr. Frodo and nervous anxiety began to creep up his chest.  He recognized that he had a moment to himself to think things out, and he took a bit of apple juice to the nursery. Little Elanor blinked sleepy eyes at him as he ran his hand through her short golden curls. 

She was pink and perfect, warm in her soft sleeper. He couldn't resist scooping her up and holding her to his chest, his face nuzzling her hair, and planting kisses on her forehead. When he took up the bottle to feed her, he began to whisper to her, slowly and painfully. 

"My heart is all tangled up, me dear one. The Gaffer, he'd say his _I told 'ee so, _Sam_, if he knew what a mess I'd made of things. And I don't have but a day or two to get things untangled, so to speak. Elanor, O lovely Elanor, your Sam-Dad has a hard choice to make, and things could go badly wrong. If you were older I'd tell you about another time I made a hard choice, and it all but ruined everything. But it makes me sore to think on it, and your ears are too little yet for that tale. _

"It's Mr. Frodo, child-o'-mine. Do you hear how my heart runs like a pack-pony? That's his doing, for I know something now that mayhaps I weren't never supposed to know. I'm right scared, and no lie. Mr. Frodo...well, you don't know all the tales I have of him, but I know you love him, sweet babe. He's easy to love, I reckon, being so gentle and beautiful and brave. And I've loved him for a long, long time, without a thought. If you asked me why, I'd jabber on into the night, but a true answer needs poetry, you see, and I've nothing proper. But maybe you understand anyway, my Elanor-love? Sometimes when I peek in on you while you're sleeping, you seem so peaceful and snug and warm, and that's how I feel when I'm with him.

"He's my master and my most best friend, so already we were joined up closely.  But then there was something else besides, something I won't tell you now, and it made us closer as like the ivy curls tight around the trellis. You can't pull that ivy loose if it's tangled round in knots, and Mr. Frodo and I can't be untied from each other either. 

"But you see, now I have some beautiful flowers tangled up with me too. When you grow up a bit you'll see how many different kinds of love and friendliness there are, almost as many as flowers in the garden. There's a sweet Rose and a pretty Elanor that are so very dear to me.  

"And Mr. Frodo is sailing, sailing, sailing over the Sea and leaving us.

"Hush, hush little one."

Sam rocked her tenderly as she whimpered, humming snatches of gentle songs over her little head, his own head bowed very low. He thought she smelled like sweet rain in the hay field, and it was a joy to breathe in. 

"I love you, little babe. I do and no mistake, more and more every day. And I'll never stop loving you, no matter what happens, I give you my real and true promise. You've made your Sam-Dad very happy, and whenever I'm remembering a bit of sadness, just holding you makes everything all right again. Your Mum is like that too, and both of you made my heart light when everything was fixing to keep it heavy. 

"I don't know what I'll do," he said, at last beginning to weep. "After that cruel task all I wanted was to see growing things again, and all things beautiful and full of life, and you and Rose came like gifts against all hope. Like the sweetest wishes you ever cast into a well and never dreamed to get. But Mr. Frodo, he's got nothing! After all he has done! 

"I was ready to give him everything, and I would gladly have carried It, or even died. But I never had anything to give, really, and I never gave something up like he did. But there's one thing I could give him now, this one thing, my little lass, and how can I not? O, how can I not? I love him. He loves me.

"He's sailing so very far away, and he must go because he's so weary with his hurts. You know how deeply he is wounded, my beautiful child. O, my Elanor dear, you will never see him again." 

He was silent for a time with weeping. 

"He will heal yet, I believe it. He must, for he oughtn't have to pay for the whole world, it's too cruel, and I'd take the debt if I could. If only I could heal him! I've been praised much more than I deserve, but my quest isn't over yet and if I could just take some of his burden...if I could give something up, and give something to him, then I might deserve it."

Wiping his eyes on his sleeve and kissing her again, he said, "I want to make him happy, as I have been." 

It took him a long moment to put his daughter back down, and in the end it was his wife who came to wrest her from him. "Mr. Frodo is ready," she said, holding Elanor tenderly. "You'd best go, if you're set on it."

He was speechless, his face still wet with tears, hardly knowing what he was heading into. Together they went out and found Mr. Frodo gently petting his horse, looking serene. Sam turned anxiously to Rosie, still standing near the door. "Will you fare all right? I told Tom to look out for you, and you ought to check in with Mr. Merry and Mr. Pippin. They'd be happy to give you a hand, and mayhaps a story or two."

"Have you any guess when I can expect you?"

Tremulously, he shook his head. How long was it to the Sea, he wondered? It was not known among hobbits, just a bit of lore about the White Downs, the Far Downs, and the Tower Hills. He chanted the names over in his head.  He had not told her about Frodo's letter, or about what he'd learned of Frodo's real plans, for Mr. Frodo had not wanted anyone to know the truth of his journey, seemingly. 

"I don't think I shall go home, Sam. Perhaps I will visit Mr. Frodo's cousins, as you say, and hear of their Travels, or perhaps I will find something else that needs to be done. But don't worry after me, and I won't worry after you, and don't let's say goodbye." She took a breath, her face set. "Go along, Sam." 

She pushed him slightly with her free arm, and with one last look he went and mounted his pony.  

"Well, we're off, Mr. Frodo," he said. 

*

TBC. Comments are very welcome. 


	11. On the Road

****

In the Grey Twilight

I want to thank all the wonderful people who have been reading and reviewing and sticking with me on this journey! 

inkstain: as always, thanks for the good cheer and hugs and encouragement whenever I need it, and for dropping by my livejournal with Frodo in tow ^_~

She Wants To Riot: don't worry, you're not the first to complain of missing this story, and I'm glad you found it! It makes me wonder if I should write a better summary, though... 

Luthien: don't give up hope. 

Isildae: you're such a dear, I appreciate your kind reviews. As for officially loving Rosie...I was a staunch Rosie-hater once myself, and it's been an interesting change of heart. 

Oselle: it meant so much to me when you said, "you make me believe this is how it really happened." That's been my goal, my challenge and purpose in writing. Thank you, thank you. And I must add that I've been hoping you'll post a new story soon... ^_^

*

How had this fleeting day passed? Sam thought it slipped like a dream, as his sweat-slick reins might escape his grip. Surely only a dream could spin such grievous beauty as he had felt today. Chewing his pipe-stem before their humble campfire, lying together with Frodo, he tried to catch hold of the day's dear memories before they both tumbled into sleep. It had felt like one long sunset...

Perhaps it was because the sun reached its peak soon after they set off, with the light drawing out at such an angle it seemed half-and-half with the shadows. The trees looked aflame, flickering in the wind, and the Travellers were quiet all this bright and dark afternoon. Sam had wanted to sing if he broke the silence at all, but there were no songs for these hours. He felt as though he'd swallowed a stone. The road was so beautiful and the going so pleasant that he wanted to play at being young again, as he and Frodo used to laugh and let their voices ring clear. But the letter was a bird fluttering at his chest, threatening to sail away. His hand strayed often to where it lay concealed at his breast. 

More often still his eyes strayed to Frodo. He was so graceful in the saddle, looking more rested than he had in many months. Some trick of the autumn air put colour in his cheeks and his eyes were like a calm, clear pond. He was beautiful, but there was a kind of transparency about him, as if he were already gone and Sam were merely dreaming. 

__

One day soon I'll wake up and he won't be there. One day I'll look for him and he'll be too far to find. 

So it was at times that Sam's head was bowed, his knuckles white upon the reins, urgency beating in his blood. Anxiety lay heavy in his stomach even as his eyes saw peace. If only they could ride with clear hearts, with nothing to think of but the sky and stars and each other, just riding on together forever! 

Again and again his eyes came to Frodo, tracing him deliberately and with the ardour of one whose future liberties were uncertain. He took him in bit by bit, first noticing the line of his pale neck peeking from under wind-swept hair. It was elegant as a swan's, delicate-seeming but strong enough to bear the Ring on its chain and Shelob's swift bite. So too was the curve of his slender shoulders, reminding him of an elven-bow, and the lean flow of his arms that had many times wrapped around him tightly with a perfect mix of strength and softness. 

His innocence had fled and he knew it. In his eyes Frodo was far more than fair, he was _ethereal_ and comely, such that all Sam's senses were rendered captive. The straight sweep of Frodo's back and the gentle slip of his hips needed to be touched just as open fields needed to be ran through. He blushed with the thought, but it did not colour his face so very fiercely and still he looked on, examining the bit of bare flesh at the back of Frodo's knees as his breeches rode up his thighs, his rounded calves turning to delicate ankles above hardened feet.

Feelings uncurled within him like so many snails in the garden, his mind humming _I love you, I love you Frodo..._ The thoughts were as familiar as his own heartbeat. He had merely named them, and it was like coming home again, it felt _right_. It was more powerful than seeing all Bilbo's tales, that he'd dreamed upon throughout his youth, come true before his eyes. His hand reached again to press the letter and he longed to read its words anew. Frodo loved him, somehow, Frodo loved him, and they loved each other, and they should not have to ride out to their end. 

Such were his thoughts the whole day, rhythmic as the falling of hooves. By and by they stopped for a bite, and while Sam set a temporary camp he found his concentration lacking. There was a stream Frodo had wandered to, and he knelt now and plunged his arms up to the elbows. Frodo looked down and deeper into the water, his back a gentle curve, his hair just touching the surface. 

"Frodo?" Sam said gently. He was aware of his omission and normally would have corrected himself in a hurry--_Mr. Frodo, I mean, beg pardon_--but he kept silent. The name was warm in his mouth. He wanted to speak it again and again, a whispered litany of his dreams. 

Frodo turned and looked up at him, his hands wet and his face full of mystery, and spoke naught of Sam's lapse. Earnestly he wondered aloud if the Shire-streams were so singular that one should never see their like elsewhere. Sam heard the real question clearly and saw it in his face:_ will there be a taste of home for me afar? _Sam was hopeless to answer.

__

Frodo me dear, I have found home wherever you are... 

They ate together, wanting for nothing. Thoughts of their Quest came and went, Sam contemplating how alone they were then and now. Though without reason for fear they stayed close, and Sam wanted not to be anxious but to feel some of the repose that glowed in Frodo. After a while they started on again and their manner was more like idle sunset-gazers after a picnic. 

__

But I have so little time. 

Sam thought they were lingering, he imagined Frodo tarrying as his destination loomed large before them. While the shadows lengthened his mind hummed, _what shall I do, what shall I do? _But soon the horizon was burning and they shared in the stillness of thoughts like a cornfield with the crows rushed away. The sky was deepening to purple and they went on over the hills, side by side now and slow. Sam realized that he did not want to reach the end, but nor did he want to stop, for the feeling of togetherness was perfect. 

"Shall we ride on yet longer, Sam?"

He understood. Without a word but fair teeming with meaning they rode under the jewelled sky. Finally, their pace slackened completely and their heads were thrown skywards, staring at the stars so long Sam thought they were waiting for them to fall or fade. Eventually it became such a stillness that it wasn't like waiting either. Then a star came sweeping across the sky like a silver river bursting free, and Sam gasped but Frodo was undisturbed beside him, as a quiet pond that merely reflects the glimmer above. 

Frodo turned to him after a moment, smiling. "Do you remember how shooting stars used to frighten you, Sam, when you were a young lad? And you would stay out for hours, hoping to chance upon one, only to cover your eyes and tremble when it came." 

It was true but he didn't cover his eyes anymore, he could watch unafraid even as it made his heart beat fast. 

Taking their cue from the sky they slipped sleepily from their ponies. Though tired the cool air gave them a feeling of health and it was a joy to stretch and tend to camp-chores. Their meal was good and they spoke lightly, mere hints of tales rather than fully-fledged stories. And maybe looking upon the pitch black wild Frodo was a bit nervous, or maybe not, but Sam drew near to chase those thoughts away, and it was natural to sit with their hands just touching.

So came they to lie side by side and the day had been so well and fully spent Sam thought not of their troubles. He wanted to remember what the day had been, not what it hadn't, and with a smile his eyes closed.

* * * * 

Frodo woke blinking at the black sky, with Sam's name on his lips, jolted from some dream born of the peace-enthralled day. The warm body of his friend was lying against his side snoring peacefully but Frodo was uneasy. His eyes scanned their camp, lit red and orange by the fire, his ears sharp to the noise of crickets and leaves rustling in the rising wind. On alert and untrusting, he sat up, not liking to awaken at night in the wild, and somewhat uncertain of where reality lay. Were they still under the shadow of the Mountain, on their hard quest? The Ring! Did he have it still? 

His hands snuck into his shirt-front and the folds of his jacket, searching, while conscious of the futility of the act. There was nothing. Slowly he relaxed, slumping back with a sigh as he was assured that the Ring was not with him. _We are away from the Black Lands, see! And I am partly away from Middle-earth too; for some shadow of me has already passed over the Sea. _He returned his gaze to Sam, sliding his hand into his breeches-pocket like one who has stopped crying but cannot yet quit the final spasms. 

His fingers touched cool metal. 

__

The Ring was in his pocket. 

He froze, caught between the two abysses of terror and desire, with a scream stuck hard in his throat. He desperately wanted to rouse Sam but he could not, as the world was spinning, blurring dreams of peace into nightmares into reality. His mind tried to make sense of it: they must still be on the road, still burdened with the task, and he had only been dreaming of freedom and rest. He had but fallen asleep again...

They were going to take it to the Cracks of Doom and destroy it. 

__

No, no! It is mine again, I shan't lose it! 

His fist closed hard upon the Ring and slowly, automatically, drew it forth. His hand was clenched so tight it shook, and the metal bit painfully into his flesh. Finally, in sick agony, he uncurled his stiff fingers and stared into his palm. 

It lay there, benign and warmed by his grip, a band of gold both familiar and unfamiliar. It was Sam's wedding ring. 

A gasp broke from him as if he'd been knocked in the chest and his eyes darted to Sam, who still lay in peaceful sleep. His left hand was visible above the blanket and his ring was missing. Trembling, Frodo gently touched the gold in his hand, a confused caress, and wanted to weep until his throat was raw and his eyes burned. _Why?_

Why has this come to me? 

Overwhelmed, tears came to his eyes as he tried to solve this impenetrable riddle. Had he stolen it from him? Here was Sam's ring in his hand, a mark of his terrible temptation, taunting the desires he sought to deny. Fleetingly he thought that Sam might have put it there and his face grew hot with blood, but he shut the idea away. 

Bringing the ring close to his face, he pressed it against his cheek. It was real, it was warm, it was _Sam's_. 

It began to rain, though he did not truly notice. He knew he ought to give the ring back, either in secret or openly if he could be so bold, but he was afraid, for he did not know what Sam would think. He should just put it in his pack and wait until the right moment came. But he could not even put it away. A feeling of sickness drifted over him and he could do nothing but stare into his palm, despairing in this proof that he could not let Sam go. He had tried to be noble, but was he not still desiring him, grasping him in his mind just as he had grasped the One Ring? 

The rain fell steadily, and the fire sputtered injuriously. Smoke and mist curled round in the air while Frodo's hair was dampened down and water flowed down his neck, pooling in his open hand. When the fire finally died altogether he was left blind in the thick darkness, chilled and numb, thinking of the warmth of Sam's gentle embrace. He put the ring reluctantly in his pocket and lay down on the ground beside him, their bodies lightly touching. 

* * * *

__

It is raining in the Barrow-downs. Water and fog slither round him like spirits, tattered and cold. He is alone, so dreadfully alone, and he feels as if his breath is struck dead as soon as he exhales. Amidst the mist he begins to see an endless stretch of shadowed mounds all around him, everywhere he looks, and he wonders in a near panic of the waylaid travellers that have gone before him... For he is trapped, sure as anything, no longer knowing what direction he came from. 

He turns round and round in circles, his eyes wide with fear. Imagining a host of dreadful wights pursuing him, his legs set to running and he dodges things that seem to erupt from the very ground he stands upon. 

It is useless, useless! He will be dragged down below! He stumbles to his knees and thinks the earth is crawling beneath him, but he looks up, up to the top of the barrow before him, to keep the fear away. 

There is a figure standing on top of the barrow, clothed in a white robe that hangs from nearly fleshless limbs. He discerns a gold circlet glinting round its head, and upon its breast a ring burns as a bonfire. 

"Frodo!" he tries to scream, but his voice is robbed. 

He staggers to his feet and claws his way up the slope, until he falls before Frodo, who stands immobile and wretched. He sees with horror that Frodo's feet and calves are buried in the ground--he is sinking. 

"I've got you, Frodo, I've got you," Sam murmurs desperately as is hands dig in the dirt. A single tear falls from Frodo's eye and slides like a worm into the barrow. "Frodo, Frodo..." 

The ground is slow to yield to him, but yield it does. Frodo's cold foot is in his hands. He caresses it and warms it, even kissing it dirty as it is, his strong hands massaging up the calf. Then he takes the other foot and does the same. 

Finally he stands to take Frodo fully in his arms, pulling away the circlet that is numbing Frodo's brow. He is so cold, his robe slimy and his skin pale beneath the chill flame of the Ring! Sam presses kisses to his hands and rejoices in the warmth that is still visible in his eyes. 

The air shifts; a wind collects and the fog rolls off in great billows. Sam looks out over the land and finds the view is clearing. And from this tall barrow he sees a wondrous thing: a distant patch of green. 

"We're going home," Sam promises, holding Frodo tenderly. "Can you walk?" 

Frodo shuffles forward, reaching out for the refuge beyond. He can walk, but he looks down upon the barrow sorrowfully, then looks back at Sam, wordlessly conveying his meaning. He does not think he is supposed to leave. 

"It's all right. I'll help you," Sam says, with worry and pity. He casts off the terrible robe and puts his cloak round him instead. The Ring he does not dare to touch, but he leans in to kiss his throat, his shoulders, his cheek, and to his amazement watches the Ring crumble to ashes. 

Softly, softly, they touch. Sam whispers to him, lips touching his skin. Softly, softly, they move forward, warm-entangled, heading for that patch of green.

It takes hours, perhaps days. But the world suddenly opens to them and they are free, standing in warm sunlight surrounded by grass and flowers. Tired, they tumble down and hold each other, now free from cares. But Frodo, slumped in Sam's arms, has so little strength, so little joy even at their victory. 

"We shall get home, yet," Sam ventures, stroking his hair. 

"Let me rest, dear Sam."

"Yes, rest now, poor dear! But isn't your heart fit to burst, now that we're away from that terrible thing? When you wake we'll laugh and jump, and the butterflies will fly up from their flowers as like one of Gandalf's magic tricks."

Frodo looks down at his hands wearily. There is dirt under his fingernails. "I never dreamed to find peace again. Even emptiness is a relief, for it is like falling asleep. I want nothing else." 

It is not enough; Sam can't bear it. "Let me want more for you," he pleads softly. "Let me hope for you and make a wish for you. Let me wish, one last time, and call out for the Lady's grace." 

Frodo presses his hand, a silent assent before closing his eyes. 

Sam lays his hand upon Frodo's breast and whispers, his voice soft but urgent and fierce with concentration. "If somehow the Lady could hear me now, I'd give her any promise my heart could hold. And mayhaps I am undeserving, as we've been delivered here to safety, but I would wish for hands of healing, so that I could hold him and touch him and give back to him all that was taken away." 

With that he kisses Frodo's brow, slow and sweet, and lies down with him on the grass. 

* * * *

Sam awoke to a damp chill, and saw with dismay that a sharp rain was upon them. It had already extinguished the fire and was now soaking their clothes to the skin. In utter darkness he was disoriented but he could feel where Frodo lay and he moved to rouse him. He shook Frodo's shoulder gently, leaning over him to shield his face from the cold rain, sitting him up awake or no to draw the hood of his cloak over his head. "Come, Mr. Frodo, we can't spend the night in the cold and the wet."

"Sam? It's too dark to see anything."

"Do you have the Lady's glass? I think there's an old fir tree near that will be as cozy as you can want, unless I miss my guess." 

A flash of white light grew before him, and he saw Frodo's wet face gleaming palely. He held the starlight with a trembling hand, its light revealing the thick rain and mist that blanketed them. Sam peered quickly at the trees and saw what he was after. 

"Wrap up your bedroll and hold it close under your cloak," Sam advised, noting that Frodo remained huddled and motionless, his eyes unfocussed. Shortly Sam got them both to their feet and led the way to a fir whose branches bent down to the ground, and the two hobbits crawled underneath into a small nest of soft needles and dirt. It was for the most part dry and as Sam would have it, as good a home as a hobbit could want away from his hole. 

Sputtering a bit as rainwater ran in rivulets from their curls, they laid out their bedrolls and cloaks and found the star-glass began to dim, and in but a moment it was again pitch black. The darkness hid them from each other but Sam did not need his eyes to take note of Frodo. In their small burrow the warmth of Frodo's body was palpable, almost as a candle-flame, and his breath whispered secrets. Sam could tell he was shivering. And, it seemed, it was not completely from the cold.

"We ought to peel these wet things off," Sam said. 

"I don't know." Sam noticed how sharply he inhaled, as if he'd been startled. Carefully Sam moved so he was kneeling in front of him.

"You'll catch your death if you stay like that," he reasoned, trying to keep his tone light. When Frodo did not move, he set his mind to it: this was one of those times when his own judgement ought to overrule the elder hobbit's. With a touch that was controlled but not guarded, he slid his hand beneath Frodo's brace, slow enough not to shock him, and drew it off his shoulder. Then Sam picked up his wrist and pulled it through the loop of his brace. Repeating the motions with Frodo's other arm, he noticed fleetingly how his face and neck were warmed by Frodo's breath and body as he bent close. Frodo's wet hair dripped on his ear. 

"All right," he murmured. It might have been a warning. His fingers set on the buttons of Frodo's shirt, undoing them as if they melted under his hands. Frodo's shirt parted, Sam's fingers brushing faintly against his smooth chest. Frodo's breath came deep and fast. It was hard to tell even at such close range, but Sam thought his eyes were closed. 

"Easy now." He slid both his hands under Frodo's shirt at the shoulders, lingering to trace out his collarbone and the vulnerable hollows there. Then he caught his collar with his thumbs and brought the shirt off Frodo's shoulders, drawing his hands down Frodo's back so that the shirt gathered around both their arms. It was almost an embrace, their chests were nearly touching and Frodo's was bare, rising and falling. Sam could feel it. His hands rested now on Frodo's hips. If he just let his hands _move_, slightly, he would be undone forever. It would be terribly easy: just the shyest flicker would announce his intentions. And as Frodo trembled it seemed cruel not to comfort him with his fledgling caress. 

__

His mouth. It would be even easier just to lean forward and share together the sweetest breath known. He knew Frodo's scent; he could guess his taste and he wanted to know it too. He thought of pressing their lips together, soft and wet and gentle. Perhaps the first touch would be at the corner of his mouth: a temptation. 

Suddenly he wanted to weep. How long had he wanted to touch him this way? 

It was like watching the coming of winter and their flowers had been too slow to bloom. Even he could not make a garden blossom in an instant or save it from the frost. His throat tightened and his tears could not be stopped, and he was cross at himself but too overwhelmed to help it. Looking over their vast field of lost chances, he knew this moment wasn't as perfect as they needed it to be, for Frodo was unsettled and it would do no good to confuse him more. _I ought only to draw him near, as innocent as on the quest, and comfort him. _Taking away his hands, he busied himself with the blankets. 

"My bedroll is dry enough," he said, "but yours makes a better bath-tub. We'll have to make do with just the one."

"It'll be warmer, anyhow," Frodo said, his voice sounding forced but smoothed with reason. He was coming back to himself, seemingly. 

They would lie down together as they had a thousand times before, no different. Quickly they undressed and Sam spread out the bedroll, made lumpy by the thick knot of roots beneath it, and they shivered together in naught but their smallclothes. Hidden in the darkness, Sam let his mind be gentled, thinking of that falling star that seemed to split the sky right open.

* * * * 

It was hard to say how he came to be lying in Sam's arms, damp skin against damp skin. Sam made better shelter than any fir tree burrow, and it felt far too good to be real, but lately so much seemed like dreams he was confused and tired. 

Was Sam asleep? Could he ask him one of the forty thousand questions spinning in his head? 

Sam's left hand was soft upon his neck, and still without his ring. Sam's breath was soft upon his face, warm and intimate as a kiss. He revelled in it even as tears stung his eyes. For he realized that they would never have such a moment again, and forever now he would feel the painful lack of Sam's breath and touch and smile and voice. How many times in eternity would he dream of this moment and wake to find himself alone? 

He wanted just to sleep, to forget and go forth unknowing, because he knew his decisions were the right and noble ones, but for himself he had come to wish only for numbness. For he realized that to have true peace now would mean being cured of Sam, and he could not let go the only part of himself he valued at all. He stifled a sigh, cringing. 

Sam's hand swept into his hair. "What's troubling you so?" Sam whispered, breaking the silence for the first time since they lay down.

Frodo went still and pretended to be asleep. Sam stroked his fingers featherlight across his brow, and Frodo thought he wouldn't have to pretend much longer. He found himself relaxing, this time unable to hold back his sigh. A quiver ran through him and another few tears escaped. 

"Frodo me dear, where have your thoughts been?"

"Sam," he could not help but whisper, as involuntary as breathing. 

"Let your Sam help you." 

Frodo pressed closer against Sam's chest, burying his face and smothering all the things he would say. Sam stroked the back of his head now, his skilled fingers drawing down the back of his skull and his neck, and Frodo felt sleep catch him as he plummeted. 

"Let me make a wish for you."

*

TBC. Comments and thoughts are welcome as always. 


	12. In the Grey Twilight

In the Grey Twilight 

With some apprehension I present the final chapter of this story, and I hope not to disappoint. If you've followed this far, perhaps you're willing to come a bit further?

It has been a long road and I owe many people my thanks. Foremost I want to thank everyone whose interest made the story worth writing. I'm extremely lucky to have been able to share this with such wonderful readers. 

And now for the story…

*

__

Like a bubble of air in water Sam flew up to the surface of his light slumber, for he was certain that someone was staring at him. Quizzically his eyes opened and at first he beheld nothing, but as he rose he felt a presence behind him. He found he could turn but slowly and suspense boiled within him, until his eyes caught a fair flicker of a white-robed figure moving in the trees. Half-hidden behind branches, two eyes pierced him through, straight to the very marrow of his thoughts, and he stood fixed in the gaze of the Lady Galadriel.

Silently she beckoned him forth, and he came. 

She led him through forest and glade, in swift stealth as a shadow among shadows or a flame among flames. Sam struggled to keep up but at last she stopped, standing before richly carved stone pedestals and a great grey fountain. 

"Not idly do we make our journey," she said. "Will you look into the mirror?" 

He consented without question, for her look was intense and his neck-hairs stood on end. Yet it was not without fear that he crept up to the shining bowl while the Lady filled it with shimmering water. Waiting for the water to grow still, Sam mustered his courage to speak boldly. 

"I've looked once before, beg pardon, my Lady. What shall I see now?" 

"As before, you will see what you may," she said and smiled gently. "Look now, but do not touch the water!" 

Feeling clumsy under her eyes Sam climbed onto the pedestal and leaned over the basin, seeing not his own reflection but only churning blackness. He was held fast, bowed to the water's surface and unable to look away if he wanted to, staring deep until the blackness began to change. Swiftly there swirled a green hill bursting with flowers, and beneath it a grand smial. It was Bag End for sure, but changed, looking a little grander and a little older. 

How wondrous the Shire seemed! In the fields and among towering trees many children played, their voices high and overflowing with laughter. Just as he tried to see their faces the water shimmered out and he saw the familiar sitting room of Bag End instead. Curled up in a chair was a very fair young lass of perhaps fifteen, a book in her lap, and tears stood in Sam's eyes for somehow he knew it was his Elanor. Golden-haired and elegant as an Elf, she was even more beautiful than he had imagined. 

She was reading aloud, Sam realized, though he could not hear her. And then he saw Rosie, listening to her daughter's words, her eyes proud and strong. She held maps in her hands. 

Before Sam could even guess which lands were marked upon the parchments the scene had changed. He saw a bright flash, like a sword glinting in the sun, and a dark pony bounding near a gallop towards a white city in the distance. There was such happiness everywhere, and celebration was thick in every land! The next image rippled in the basin all too briefly: there was a crowd, and upon a platform he thought he saw Queen Arwen bestow something upon his sweet Elanor... 

Then he was taken somewhere else, to a windy hill-side, moon-lit and strange. He saw Frodo lying in soft repose, reeds swaying around him, his face enthralled with peace. It was but a moment and then all was gone, and the water was again still and dark. Sam reeled backwards. 

"O," he said, "O! It's all too little and too much!" And he shed tears of mingled joy and sadness. 

"What say you, Samwise of the Shire?"

He was sure the Lady Galadriel could see in him every swift-sailing thought, and he quivered, blushing and agitated. Yet he felt no harsh judgement from her, and no censure, just a sharp press of questions. He faced her as if to be tested. 

"Does not your home call you?" she asked. 

He sighed a little breath. "I reckon Rose's not expecting me," he answered. "I won't say it's easy for me, thinking about her and my little one. But I feel called to Mr. Frodo, if you follow me."

"You would abandon all this that you have fought for, your home and country? Do you truly love him so much?"

I love him, I love him! _It swelled inside him without words, and she nodded slightly in recognition,_

but he knew that she wanted to hear his claims, his reasons and purpose. And so he slowly began to speak, his embarrassment turning numb.

"I do love him, but there's more to it than that. If all I wanted was his kiss, or a night with him, like some tweener's dream, I'd not be in all this trouble. And if I just thought we belonged together as like brothers, I could send him off with a clear heart. But I want to make him happy, see, and I've a notion that making him happy is the most important thing I could do. I believe I could do it--I hope I could heal him." And, fearing himself foolish, he hung his head. 

Above all wonders, the Lady took his hands between her own, a sensation so kind and lovely he could not lift his eyes from the ground. Yet somehow he could still picture her face as she smiled upon him. He felt a spreading warmth as she breathed upon his hands, and she spoke a few soft words he did not understand. 

"You shall not be denied," rang a voice in his head. 

* * * *

Awaking to cool morning air and fir tree boughs hanging close above him, Sam sat up and tried to put his mind to rights, and set straight what _was_ from what _wasn't_. It was no easy task and he scratched his head, finding his hair impossibly tangled, and muttered, "Best not to let queer dreams make queer thoughts, as the gaffer says." 

A fire was his chief concern, now that the rain had stopped and they'd need to cook breakfast and dry the damp from their things. Frodo was still asleep and Sam arranged their blankets snugly around him, bending to lightly kiss his brow, before struggling into a spare set of clothes from his pack which were now more cold than wet. He'd have to keep moving to warm up, so he crawled out quickly to check on the ponies and was glad they'd been reasonably sheltered by tree-cover as well. From his pack he fed them an apple each and went off in search of dry wood. 

They were travelling light but Sam had planned a big breakfast for this very morning, and he wasn't about to give it up. He was far too clever with camp-cooking to be thwarted and soon he had a nice spread laid out that he hoped would tempt Frodo's appetite. Thinking they could stay here all day if they wanted, Sam decided to carry all the dishes back to their burrow and let Frodo eat there while his clothes dried by the fire. 

Despite a bit of noise Frodo still hadn't woken and Sam found himself reluctant to disturb him. Smiling, he sat by him and watched him breathe as he had many times before when Frodo slept. His bare shoulder peeked out from under the blanket but he did not appear chilled, which was something to be glad of. Very carefully Sam touched the back of his hand to Frodo's neck and found it happily warm. And there were no worry-lines creasing his face, he noted. Sam sighed and watched him and wanted to snuggle down beside him, gathering him to his chest just as he had the night before. Perhaps it would happen very naturally, without need for words: he imagined the two of them lying together all afternoon, awake but not caring to move, and Frodo would realize within those warm hours that Sam loved him. 

When he snapped from his daydream he saw Frodo's blue eyes staring up at him. 

"Hoy," he whispered just under his breath. 

Frodo stirred, stretching and yawning. "Has the rain stopped?" he asked sleepily. 

"Aye, but you rest; your Sam's got breakfast ready here."

Sitting up slightly, keeping the blankets tucked securely around himself, Frodo eyed his breakfast. "Goodness! What's all this for?" 

"Your birthday," Sam said shyly. 

Frodo appeared rather taken aback, smiling a few moments later. "A cheery feast to chase away the wet chill, anyway! I think a woodland party in a burrow beneath a tree is exactly what I wanted. It reminds me of something at Brandy Hall--a very long time ago, really, when I was young." 

"I hope you don't mean to say as you're _old_ now, as you're hardly that."

"Well no, I won't be breaking any records. Hand me a plate, would you? I find I'm quite hungry."

Sam did so with a twinge of pride, doling out hearty portions of everything. "Here you are. Happy birthday, Mr. Frodo."

"Thank you, Sam. I'm surprised the scent of it didn't rouse me out of a dead sleep; it's wonderful." 

Sam sat back against the tree-trunk, light-headed as if he'd been somersaulting down the Hill, seeing Frodo smile so easily. 

"This reminds me a bit of when I was a young thing, too," Sam said, though the time and place had nothing to do with it. 

They ate together, laughing at small things in the manner of children. They were so far away from everything! Far away from their old life, and far away from recent memories too. It filled his heart with ease as if his errand were simple. When Frodo laughed, it seemed it would be such an easy and wondrous thing to speak his heart, like running up atop Bag End to see a magnificent sunset-splendor. Indeed, it was almost impossible to resist, so greatly did he long to bring him happiness.

Frodo finished a fair piece of what was on his plate before leaning back and rubbing his belly contentedly. 

"Your fine cooking has made me sleepy, Sam!"

"There's no harm in having a nap. That'd be best, really, as your clothes won't be full dry yet anyhow. Are you warm enough?"

"Yes, but we'll end up sitting about like Bilbo's trolls if we don't break camp soon. So fetch me my clothes and I'll be out to help you in a minute." 

"There's no hurry," Sam replied quickly. "There's no hurry. And you're only inviting a cold if you go about in damp things. I'll have none of that."

"I daresay yours aren't dry," Frodo argued. He sighed and looked at Sam fondly, in a manner that had never failed to get his own way. Quietly he said, "I know you mean to give me a good birthday, Sam, but it can't really be like when we were lads. We must ride on soon." As if he didn't intend to say it, he added, "I'm hoping to see Bilbo today." 

Sam closed his eyes briefly. Every word and thought in his head had faded like the day's last light. He was supposed to be asking questions, because he was supposed to believe they were headed for Rivendell, which was yet many days away. But Sam wouldn't act a part. Nor did he want to hear Frodo's answers, for suddenly it felt too near and too painful. 

Frodo was watching him, waiting on him, seemingly. Sam silently gathered the dishes. 

"I won't be long," he murmured and scrambled out. 

The fire smoked before him and he fell to his knees as if grieving. Still he fought the great tide of sadness that threatened to break upon him and he held to hope, as he had once looked to the last patch of clear sky while flame and molten rock curled near. _A fool's hope, mayhaps, but better than naught. _He stared at his hands and willed himself to determination. 

Searching his pack for the letter he'd stowed there yesterday evening, and found it rather worse for wear but still legible. It burned through him as a stab of lightning; it was like a map of his quest laid out before him and responsibility renewed his vigour. He got to his feet. He could go on. Quickly he went to tend to the ponies. 

__

He'll fight you every step, Sam Gamgee, he thought to himself. _But of course he will! He don't want me giving anything up for him, as it were. Like he's gone and won this prize just for me to enjoy, and he can't have any of it. _

"How can I make him see different?" Sam murmured as he rubbed down old Bill. "He won't think he deserves it."

__

Even if you make him see, then what'll happen? It won't be up to you in the end. 

To that he had no answer. Bill nudged him and Sam smiled and fed him another apple, petting him affectionately before giving Strider the same treatment. When he next looked back at their camp he saw Frodo by the fire, dressed and warming his hands. 

"Shall we go on, Frodo?"

Frodo studied him strangely for a moment, then nodded, his hand reaching to check at something in his pocket even as he tensed and tried to act as though he were merely straightening his weskit. 

__

His heart's the trouble and you know it. This is no easier for him than it is for you.

Sam poured water over the fire and a sharp wind rose, reducing them to shivers. It was fixing to be a comfortless day. 

"Here," Sam said as he placed his own cloak around Frodo's shoulders, running a compassionate hand down his back.

Frodo trembled and looked away.

* * * * 

He hummed to himself most of the long day, to quell his anxious heart. It was best to quiet his thoughts though they whispered at a delirious pitch despite his efforts, and twice he sang words without meaning to: _I will not say the Day is done, nor bid the Stars farewell. _In weakness he thought of turning back; either to look at Sam, or to head home, for the two actions seemed almost the same, yet he did neither. It was not a strength of simple conviction but rather unrecoverable dreams of peace: fool dreams where somehow everything turned out all right. Often he thought of how glad he'd be to see Bilbo again.

Perhaps it was an escape, or perhaps he wearied of his confusion, for he found himself dozing between sleep and wakefulness, where swift dreams flew lighter than air. The scent of the Sea was thick in his nostrils, its breeze hard in his hair, and the taste of salt upon his lips. He could hear it, sweeter than any lullaby and more beautiful than poetry. He felt himself tumble down among reeds and sand, gloriously, to be uplifted by a crashing wave that cradled his limbs and rocked him ere it drew thin, depositing him upon the wet shore. Above him, stars were being lost to the quickening of the blue sky. Around him, he felt the warmth of another person's body, as his head was pillowed softly in someone's lap. He turned his head and pressed his nose to his companion's shirt, breathing in Sam's scent. 

He had dropped his reins; Sam's hand was upon his arm. "You're tired, Frodo."

He _was_ tired, but it was not something sleep could cure. "You caught me in a day-dream, I'm afraid." Awaking, he saw that the twilight was descending; several hours had sailed past since they last stopped. But something was happening, for the air and light were changing, and it felt timeless and enchanting as Lothlórien had, as if part of him would wander there forever. 

Slipping from his pony he began to walk, looking about with wide eyes, listening. His heart ran fast, and he began to sing: 

"_Still round the corner there may wait_

A new road or a secret gate;

And though I oft have passed them by,

A day will come at last when I 

Shall take the hidden paths that run 

West of the Moon, East of the Sun."

"What is it?" Sam asked.

"The Elves are coming. Can you hear it? Can you feel it?"

Sam slowly nodded, looking not to the woods but to Frodo. "Are they coming for you?" 

The simple question brought home the full impact of what was happening and Frodo wanted to bolt, tears coming to his eyes. He steeled himself and one hand instinctively wrapped around Sam's. "I've kept this from you and I am sorry. In Minas Tirith Lady Arwen told me that if I were yet weary, I would be permitted to pass into the West in her stead. I am leaving, Sam. I am wounded too badly to have rest here, much as it grieves me. I shall go over the Sea with Bilbo like I ought, and at last I may find ease." 

"You deserve it, you do," Sam replied fiercely, almost shouting through his tears. "You deserve the world. 

'Tis a hard cruel world if you've no relief from suffering. And as long as you've any unhappiness, we haven't really won, or so it seems to me."

"Please, Sam," Frodo whispered, wanting him to stay his words. 

"You deserve more, if you don't mind my saying so. Frodo me dear," and he looked at him hard, "I can't send you off if the Blessed Realm won't heal you fully, or make you happier than you've ever been. It's too cruel to chance your not getting all you've hoped for, and me not knowing how you're faring!" 

"There is no other way!" Frodo cried, as Sam hushed him and stroked his hand. Sam's eyes were intense and beautiful and Frodo felt inexplicably afraid. Sam was so close, staring at him as though no one else existed. 

Over Sam's shoulder Frodo saw the gleam of the company's approach, sadness and promise mixed together. He shook, feeling somehow that he had better run now before it was too late. He could hear them singing. 

"_A! Elbereth Gilthoniel! _

silivern penna miriel

o menel aglar elenath,

Gilthoniel, A! Elbereth! 

We still remember, we who dwell

In this far land beneath the trees

The starlight on the Western Seas."

"Let me come with you," Sam said. 

Frodo stood in a rush, his head spinning, breaking away to approach the company. _My beloved! Farewell, farewell! If I look any longer into your eyes I will be bound too tight. _

Music grew louder in his ears and began to calm him, and as he came through the trees he saw the Elves. To Elrond and Galadriel he bowed his head, but Bilbo captured his attention instantly, sitting hunched atop a little grey pony. Frodo stopped short, grief sharp within him, then came breathless to his side. 

"Hullo, Bilbo," Frodo said quietly, sad fondness in his eyes. When he squeezed the elder hobbit's shoulder, Bilbo awoke, blinking and puzzled to see Frodo all at once. "Happy birthday, Uncle."

"Yes, happy birthday to you, dear boy," Bilbo said, his wits returning. He fumbled for Frodo's hand and the younger hobbit provided it. "Are you coming?"

"I am. We will go together."

__

Farewell.

"Good, good." Bilbo was nodding again shortly, and Frodo closed his eyes for a moment, leaning to kiss Bilbo's brow. He felt a sudden urge he'd never known before, a desire to take care of his uncle as he had taken care of him, and with that thought he carefully arranged Bilbo's cloak around his shoulders. When he stepped away he found Sam close at hand. Frodo sighed deeply, suddenly more tired than the day's journey warranted. 

"I should have come sooner, I think. I have repaid him poorly." 

"Don't you talk that way, Mr. Frodo," Sam replied, his voice hitching. "Let's go say our hellos like proper, now." 

The hobbits bowed to the Elf-lord and Lady, and for a moment Frodo feared judgement but there was none to be found in the eyes of the Elves. Elrond announced their names before all the company with grave words of praise that Frodo still never expected to hear. Galadriel smiled upon them and for a fleeting moment Frodo was warmed by hope unlooked for. 

He had forgotten how her voice rang like a bell. "Lighten all solemnity from your heart, if you can! You will be well-honoured among us these last days East of the shore, to light joy against sorrow." 

Frodo bowed graciously. "Thank you, my Lady," he said with shining eyes, "but I would beg of you to impart all honours on Sam, because it is my birthday and I have nothing to give him." 

Sam seemed slightly mortified beside him, but he held his peace, and Galadriel smiled with something near affection. 

"What would you have in your honour, Samwise?" Galadriel said as she stood before him. Sam blushed terribly and studied his feet, but not before shooting Frodo an exasperated glare. 

"I've long wanted to thank you, your Ladyship," he stammered. "For the garden-box I mean, but other things too and I don't want to seem ungrateful, as it were. And to be sure I wouldn't ask for a thing, except it's urgent, if you follow me."

"I know all that you would say," Galadriel replied mercifully, "for you have already told me."

Frodo watched in wonder as the Lady briefly took Sam's hands and bowed her head low over them, and kissed them. Sam breathed in fast and deep and shivered as Galadriel retreated. 

"Sam?" Frodo whispered to him, but he blinked and kept silent. 

It was clear the Elves intended to ride on, and the hobbits went back to their ponies. Sam, his eyes still distant, nonetheless came to attend Frodo and help him mount. With an action purely practical and fleeting, Sam steadied his elbow and braced his back as he swung his leg over Strider, but something had happened: at the touch of his hands a child's tune suddenly came to Frodo's mind, and in his heart memory of a time when it made perfect sense to sing senseless songs. He remembered the trees where he had loved to nap, and Bilbo chiding him in jest for being idle as he tucked a blanket over him; and Frodo felt a vast warmth enter him and he sighed smilingly.

It was but a moment and then it was gone, and Frodo found he wanted the feeling back terribly. Looking down at Sam he saw surprise written upon his face. 

"Come, Sam! Ride with me," he choked, and bounded quickly towards the company, shivering. He fell in behind Bilbo's pony, trying to set his will and battle the conflict in his heart.

"Hail, Elf-friend," a voice said beside him. Frodo turned and saw Gildor Inglorion of the House of Finrod riding near. The Elf's sharp eyes searched his face for many moments, then he bowed gracefully from his mount. "Long it has been since I last saw you, and far you have travelled, Ring-bearer!" 

Reunions could be but bittersweet for Frodo, as he dreaded startling and saddening his old friends by the changes that were so noticeable in his person. But Gildor did not continue to speak of it, nor did he observe him too carefully; indeed, he laughed softly. 

"A pity we do not have with us fare good enough for a birthday party. Our jewel among hobbits shall share the best of my plate, lest his appetite go unsatisfied!" 

"Mae govannen," Frodo replied, and laughed gratefully.

* * * *

Late in the night the company stopped to take refreshment and Frodo stayed by Bilbo's side, speaking frivolities and reporting Shire-news in close conference. It struck Frodo how full of ease Bilbo was, and the respectful tending the Elves paid to the elder hobbit gladdened him, as caring for Bilbo took his mind off his own troubles. But when Frodo finished explaining about the flourishing of the forests and gardens Bilbo grew quiet, and Frodo wondered if talk of the Shire was not too painful in the face of their departure.

"So finally you are going to come on an adventure with me, my lad!" Bilbo said, rousing from a doze. 

"Yes, Bilbo."

"Our last and best, hmm? Perhaps they'll sing of Nine-Fingered Frodo and the Ring of Doom tonight. Sam's been asking to hear it." 

Frodo smiled weakly. "That's too heavy for such an evening. I'd rather they sang of the Stout-Hearted Shire Gardener."

"I don't doubt it. Yet his tale is yours, and yours is his, as anyone can see. If the Dúnadan were here we'd have a fair verse for you in no time. But I'm too tired now... Just give me some notes, as it were, if you can think of some good lines about your stout-hearted gardener." The old hobbit lay back and seemed nigh on sleeping, but he peeped at Frodo with one sharp eye when he wasn't looking. 

Frodo tucked blankets about him, his voice coming softer. "Good lines indeed! I owe him more than Smaug's full horde. That's what they ought to sing of. And how all my thoughts forever on begin and end with him. They call him loyal but that's an empty word for all he did, which I don't think anyone can really understand; for grace gave him strength and virtue and beauty to surpass the best of Middle-earth, and at the end I thought he was blessing me every time he gazed on me. What that felt like and what it means to me is too thick to translate into words, I fear."

Not opening his eyes, the elder hobbit clasped his hand. "I know, my boy."

Frodo went still and silent, for confessions were too difficult and he knew Bilbo would drop off soon. A long time after the elder hobbit began to snore he sat listening to troubled memory, and was consumed by it until Sam came for him. 

"Why don't you come to bed?"

"I'm not very tired, Sam," said Frodo, which was not true. 

"I reckon the Elves only stopped to give us hobbits a rest. We'd best take it." Sam reached out and took him by the hand, refusing to yield to argument. He had set out their bedrolls a few paces away and here Sam pulled him down, his movement fluid and swift and easy. In a heartbeat they were well-wrapped together beneath the blankets. They lay enfolded in an embrace.

Sam's hands lay upon his breast and in his hair, his body pressed close against Frodo's back. Frodo shut his eyes so very tightly, feeling his mounting surrender. Sam's hand was beyond warm where it gently touched his chest: it was a feeling strange and strong that called to him louder than thunder. He was quivering with challenged self-restraint, for he felt called to give in to all that he wanted: to turn and face Sam with utter release, to speak and touch in love. He was all but lost to this thing that summoned him in cadence to Sam's soft caress. 

Blood pounded in his ears. O, wasn't it like putting on the Ring at the last moment? Sam went slack upon him, having slipped into sleep at last, innocent and beautiful. 

Frodo turned carefully and took him into his arms, his mad reasoning spinning a thousand justifications. Sam slept on unaware, and truly Frodo was still tense with control, for it was not freedom of touch he most desired but the sweeter freedom of honesty. Delicately he brushed Sam's hair away from his temple and moved ever so slightly to kiss him there, then kissed his cheek and was painfully tempted to taste his mouth and let him wake as his kisses came stronger. 

Dear beautiful Sam! To hold him was like a glorious summer. To breathe his scent was a homecoming. 

In that moment Sam offered a thousand promises of bliss but Frodo dare not listen, for all his heart's desires had been offered once before by the fell voice of the Ring. Shuddering as he was lured towards his desperate fulfilment he at last forced his hands away, in a great upheaval of fear and condemnation. He fled under the moon that night, and again for three nights hence.

* * * *

The days passed like clouds over the moon, but for Elrond many days had drawn so swift while he lingered here. As he kept watch over his mortal friends, he wondered at how short and strange their lives were, so full of doubt and pain, and yet how bravely they were borne. He had long known that Elves ought not claim superiority overmuch, when their lives were less burdened by such terrors, but before his eyes he was seeing now a supremacy unmatched by any fair-hearted Elf dwelling in the smallest and simplest creatures of the world. 

Though it was deep into the night Bilbo Baggins was restless and sat up unhappily, and Elrond came swiftly to his aid, bearing cushions and fine quilts. 

"I am no longer made for sleeping out of doors," Bilbo grumbled. "How my bones ache!"

"I have a tea that will ease them," said Elrond with some concern. "We shall soon get you comfortable, and you will remember how fine a roof the star-scape makes." So saying, Gildor was at their side with a steaming cup, and Elrond fashioned a clever bed soft as any in the Last Homely House. 

Bilbo sipped his tea slowly, smiling again as he found warmth and comfort replace his pains. He looked about for his heir and saw him fast asleep beneath a few blankets, entangled with Samwise. "It seems to my ailing eyes that a star has fallen here upon the hill!" Bilbo exclaimed. "Am I imagining it, my friend? They glow brighter than flame, dear lads! Do you see it?" 

Elrond nodded gravely. "Their spirits boil beneath the surface, white and roaring as the foot of Rauros. Middle-earth will never see its like again."

"Nor has it ever seen such a thing before, I dare say, yet you don't look surprised." 

"I have grown accustomed to being surprised by them, as Mithrandir warned me would happen. Truly I do not know how this spectacle has come to be. Perhaps it is because Frodo and Samwise are among Elves and honoured that their virtue shines, but it gleams brighter than any. It is a great sign."

"Of what, I wonder?" Bilbo murmured as his eyes began to close. 

"For that we shall have to wait," said Elrond, covering the now-sleeping hobbit warmly. "Rest well, little master."

The Elf-lord was moved to go walking, and draw tales of ancient times from the silent trees. He went into the woods, taking rest in the manner of his people, listening to the evensong of the world. When he came to a small clearing he sat upon a smooth stone hewn of old.

The stars glittered upon his silver harp and the deep sky seemed to drip into the blue gem of his ring. The trees appeared like stone carvings, fluid and twisting against the indigo sky but immovable and immortal and caught in time. Elves liked living things but they liked stone too, for its permanence reminded them more of themselves. Beyond all this he could hear the distant toss of the Sundering Seas, which constantly testified to the coming of the End. It was odd that until now all the songs of the Valinor had carried a mythic quality. Still he found it hard to think how the night air would slip through empty Imladris, and the Last Homely House would grow cold. 

It was a long and lonely song he played, yet beautiful too. With the stirring wind a few leaves fluttered round him and Elrond watched them fall in the moonlight. This land ever tossed and shivered with life and death! How long he had tarried here, loving the turn and change of things! He breathed a sigh, tracking leaves borne far away upon the wind, thinking how this world would go on after he had passed. 

There was a soft rustle, and Elrond recognized the sound of a hobbit moving lightly among the bracken. A moment later the Ring-bearer emerged and approached him quietly, merely sitting by him while he played. They sat together companionably as the moon made its passage across the sky, the hobbit's face tilted upwards and his eyes shut. Finally when the song came to a slow close like the gentling of breaking waves upon the shore, Elrond put down his harp and the two regarded one another. 

"Iorhael," Elrond greeted him. "What keeps you from your rest these nights?"

Frodo was not quick to answer, his gaze dropping to Elrond's harp. "Was that a song of the Undying Lands? I think I heard Queen Arwen singing it once."

He nodded. "Were my voice as fair as my daughter's I would have sung the verse. But she is not here."

There was a common theme between them; they both suffered to leave behind someone they dearly loved. Frodo's face glowed palely, seeming sad and intelligent. "It is hard to leave this world behind," he murmured thoughtfully. "We are offered the fairest passage, but as wondrous as the Valinor may be, I would be happier to find peace in my homeland."

"Have you much uncertainty of your path?" 

"Some," he admitted, though he seemed reluctant to say more. 

"Speak now, Frodo. You ought not depart ere you heart is settled. Regret is a plague among mortals, as my long years have taught me." 

"I know," Frodo whispered, visibly moved. "In truth I am lost, and I wonder if I can even trust myself." 

Elrond waited, wrought with patience, and the pair sat in silence for a long while. Then Frodo removed something from his pocket and slowly, not looking up, held it out to the Elf. 

In the hobbit's open palm, a very tiny gold ring rested benignly. It was a hobbit's ring, of hobbit make, dull from wear and bearing many small dents. Conscious of Frodo's shame, Elrond took the trinket from him as if relieving him of a burden. 

"It is Sam's wedding ring," Frodo said in anguish. "I found it in my pocket. I don't know how." 

"He has not said anything to you about it?" 

"No, and I cannot bear to ask him, for I fear I have done something terrible."

"You have not, I am sure," Elrond said with authority. This fair creature who flickered before him like a firefly was pure of wrong, as was his beloved. "Be eased! This is a burden of good, not evil."

"What if I've stolen this from him?" Frodo choked, his face in a grimace of bitter weeping. "I won't be able to live with myself, and yet I can't give it up--I can't give _him_ up. I love him," he confessed at last. 

Elrond knelt swiftly before him, marvelling at the strength of love burning in the hobbit's breast, a love Frodo somehow thought was wrong. 

"That is written upon you for those to see it who may," he said and smiled gently. "But it is no impure feeling that binds you to him, Frodo Baggins. Think! If you were bound to the One Ring you cannot be blamed, for Sauron's will was formidable. Yet surely you would say that it is _your_ will that loves Sam, not that of darkness and shadow. This I know: you are not guided by evil, nor are you capable of it."

Were there a pond nearby, he would have bid him to look and see his own light, that which Frodo most needed to see.

Perhaps Frodo believed him by words alone, for he bore a look of wild hope beneath his tears. "Then how did this come to me?" he asked, gingerly taking back the ring. 

"Will you not ask your companion?"

Frodo shifted restlessly and Elrond rose, taking up his harp once more. Softly he played and the moment drifted, and Frodo swayed as if lulled near sleep. He had shut his eyes and when he opened them again, he said, "O! Nimrodel!"

"Yes. For you are not the first to face such a difficult choice." 

"No, and I can learn much from such company. None among those songs is free from sorrow." Frodo stood, looking gravely up at the stars. "The fairest passage is also the most painful, it seems."

The hobbit spoke wisely, Elrond thought. 

"But in truth, I feel as though my choice was taken from me. It is not out of faithlessness that I leave, but weariness only. Do you believe me that I cannot remain?" 

"None would ask you to! Do as you must, Frodo; I am an Elf and can offer you no greater advice. But when you have crossed the Sea, if you find your sorrow at his absence to be very great, you need not be alone. For it shall be long before I may watch the glimmer of a clear sky and not mourn the grace of Evenstar diminished."

Frodo's eyes shone anew, filled with compassion and gratitude. He reached forward and placed his little hand upon the Elf-lord's, and met his gaze, and thus spoke his thanks silently. Elrond was again struck by the pure light within him and began to think he would grieve supposing Frodo and Sam were torn asunder. It would make a song to rival fair Nimrodel, perhaps.

"I suppose it must be so, for I can only love him from afar in any case," Frodo said with quiet acceptance. He smiled bravely and looked down at the ring as he warmed it in his palms. Again his face grew puzzled. "If I truly didn't take this from him, how...?" 

"I wonder if you are not afraid of the answer," Elrond mused. "Go now and rest, and be with him a little while. When the question grows too heavy, you will ask him."

* * * *

A thousand of Bilbo's stories Sam had heard, a thousand he believed, and a thousand turned out to be true. It had worried his Gaffer something awful, his lad putting stock in miracles. The Gaffer once marched him back to Bag End after his bedtime so Bilbo could assure him that certain fantastical monsters weren't real, but Sam refused to believe this even from the mouth of his storyteller. After that Bilbo said he'd have to watch his words around the impressionable Gamgee, but he never did; in fact he seemed to delight all the more in spinning tales for young Sam. 

It was a fairy-story he was now leading, and he knew it. Yet as they rode his determination to believe in it did not falter: it only increased. And though Frodo held his distance with defence, keeping his thoughts to himself and staying close to Bilbo, he did not despair, here as the end came near! 

As the sunset drew close, Sam found the pace gentled still more, and he rode contentedly with his pipe between his teeth. The air was so refreshing he kept tilting back his head to breathe still deeper, admiring the sky as it quivered with pale transforming colour. White and grey birds were flying out, streaming above him. Their cries sounded distant and mournful and joyous all at once, and he was strangely moved to watch them. But, riding up beside him, Frodo had gone very still and shut his eyes, looking peaceful. 

"Where do they come from, do you suppose, and where are they going?" asked Sam dreamily. 

"They are sea-gulls, Sam, flying inland for sleep and shelter." 

The Sea, the Sea! He felt as though its cold waters were crashing upon him, dragging him down to the deep, lonely bottom. As they crested a great hill wind came sharply over the grass, drying tears that he had not noticed on his cheeks. 

He looked out to the rolling hills below and his spirit shook, for great white Towers rose into the sky. Dimly he heard the voices of the Elves rise in song, but Sam's head swam as they approached the Towers so tall and dazzling. 

"A marvellous sight, is it not?"

Sam wondered who had spoken and looked beside him, where Gildor had come without him hearing. Sam turned without responding, wanting to share the moment with Frodo, but he had gone back to see that Bilbo was kept warm against the wind. 

"From their heights one can see the Sea spread out below. It is a long climb, but I will take you if you wish." 

"No, no thank you!" Sam replied. "I don't hold with heights, not one bit." Then he suddenly felt weary, and his limbs trembled, thinking that the Sea lay just beyond the hills. O, how vast would it be? So wide and deep as to fill his mind and heart to the brim! 

"I've been in one Tower and found it enough," he muttered. _I will not say the Day is done, nor bid the Stars farewell._

"Master Samwise? Are you unwell?"

Tension mounted in his breast and his ears filled with roaring; he slipped from old Bill and spun unseeing, seeking Frodo. He took a few stumbling steps before his eyes rolled back in a swoon. 

* * * *

From his place by Bilbo's pony Frodo saw Sam fall, and he ran out with a yell as Elves raced fast behind him.

"Sam!" Frodo called, falling to his knees and taking him in his arms before Gildor could. 

Sam's eyes snapped open and he tried to stand, but upon seeing Frodo he relaxed. "Frodo! It's me, I've come!" he cried strangely, wrapping his arms about him hard. 

"What? Rest, you've scared me," soothed Frodo as he stroked his hair and hugged him to his breast. 

"It's all right," Sam murmured. His eyes were all unfocused but calm, and Frodo was watching him quietly, drawing his fingers down Sam's face. "It's all right," Sam repeated softly, smiling. "It's real, I've come." 

With great tenderness Sam's fingers searched out the spot where Shelob had bit him, stroking, then he leaned forward and kissed him there on his neck, a hot damp touch, as his hands slipped under his cloak and jacket to run along the faded whip mark. Frodo's head whirled, for his hurts had never been touched this way and it was like being inside a song, as Sam had once said. 

His eyes were closed when he felt Sam's breath upon his face, and then there was a most gentle pressure against his lips, Sam's mouth upon his, dry and warm and yielding.

It was a dizzying moment before Frodo broke from his shock and began to respond, weak with wanting. He reciprocated just on the brink of his control, trembling and feeling tears tumble down his cheeks as Sam's mouth opened to him. It was brief, and all too soon Sam made a careful retreat.

Frodo could but gasp, his heart throbbing anxiously. It was like one of those half-remembered dreams that made waking so bitter: for a moment, the world split asunder and Sam loved him. 

Sam squeezed his hand. "I've got to get you out of here. At once, see!"

"Sam!" Frodo cried in anguish. Afraid, he did not protest when Elrond bent to take Sam from him. But by then Sam was already blinking and he seemed to break from his confusion. Elrond peered at him intently and called his name and Sam answered with a blush, insisting he was well. He did not remember falling. 

Frodo stood back, ready to faint himself and unable to look at anyone. He dropped to the grass, sitting with his knees tucked under his chin. _It didn't mean anything, you know it didn't, _he repeated to himself. Yet hard as he tried he couldn't believe it. The memory of Sam's mouth throbbed undeniably upon his lips; the memory of Sam's hands pressed hotly upon his back. Vaguely aware that he was still crying, he wiped his face with his hand. It was fear that overcame him: slowly he realized he was afraid that Sam loved him, for against this his defences could not hold. 

* * * *

The board was set; Gandalf stood beside Shadowfax in wait, and the sun's last light faded and the Sea roared, and the tall form of Círdan came down from the gates leading a host of Elves, and with them, three halflings. Here at the end of an Age there were a million thoughts and memories to consider, but the wizard's attention was fixed keenly upon the hearts of two small mortals. To Shadowfax alone he spoke of his hopes, and what he had Seen. 

Yet for all his wisdom he was unprepared for the intensity of the scene before him, as the Company drew near. Blazing before him with purest quality and resolve were Frodo and Samwise, so overwhelming Gandalf thought he would have to shield his eyes--nay, his heart!--from its splendor. He laughed low and long in wonder, and Elrond held his gaze meaningfully, coming to greet him. 

"They seek a triumph greater than we have yet wrought, Mithrandir."

"Indeed! I would be very sore of heart if they should fail." But looking upon them with fond amazement, he could not imagine that they would. There would be yet one more surprise brought by halflings, even here in the grey twilight. 

"Samwise says Frodo will fall ill in a few days, while we are yet sailing. None can spare him that, I fear."

Elrond spoke with certainty and long Gandalf had feared it was so, for had he thought there was any remedy to be found for his friend, he would have searched out every corner of every land. But Sam walked forth as a beacon of hope everlasting, his will so firm Gandalf could not deny it. 

Yet he could see the pieces were in disarray. Frodo remained many paces back with Bilbo, greeting Gandalf with eyes that would rather not see too far. Samwise was closer, shooting painful looks back at Frodo and panicked looks forward.

Before them waited the magnificent white ship, and gulls wheeled round its masts, and the grey sea rolled in against its sides. Sam stared long at it, his face thick with emotion, and finally Gandalf herded him close with an arm about his shoulders, moved to pity by the depth of fear and sorrow so bravely kept. He said nothing, feeling in Sam a quest the hobbit had to bear alone. So too was Sam silent, breaking away when Frodo came at last, and Gandalf embraced him too. 

"My dear hobbits," Gandalf said quietly, "an end is come."

* * * *

Frodo had not the strength to spare eyes for Sam, looking instead at the white ship, letting it fill his thoughts too. He was almost completely taken, struggling upon the brink as his mind betrayed him, ever reaching to claim Sam! 

With great effort he turned and began to walk up to the ship, staring as though he would burn it into his eyes, unable to see anything else forever. 

__

This time I will choose to do what I came to do! 

* * * *

Sam watched him, tension clamouring inside his chest. Already Círdan and the Elves were making the white ship ready. Frodo would not look at him, and now he was walking away determined and steady, drawn up to the ship single-mindedly. He was leaving; Frodo meant to leave him! Sam had but moments now and his panic grew, but his will was set: the Lady's last gift would not go to waste.

Upon the misty shores the little hobbit began to run, charging with his hand outstretched in offering rather than a sword. 

He rushed before Frodo as if for battle, taking up Frodo's hand tightly in his own, his heart labouring. "'Tis beautiful, beautiful, this elven-ship that will bear you away! And peaceful it may be, but you've said naught of joy!"

Sam's voice and actions barely seemed his own. He drew Frodo's hand to him, and for a moment the elder hobbit stayed firm, resisting, his eyes wide in apprehension. Yes, they would fight. 

"Please, Sam, do not speak of it!" Frodo pleaded, his tone one of warning. "I thought you would understand, Sam. It must be this way, there is nothing else for me! You must leave off, for I am weak, too weak; I would demand from you what you cannot give." 

Frodo's raw emotion wounded Sam as a sword-thrust but he did not waver, and with great effort he spoke clearly: "I would give it."

This volley hit Frodo hard and he reeled, nearly moaning. He could not counter-strike, he but gasped and looked ready to flee, and Sam held him tighter still. 

"Frodo," Sam whispered, the last mercy in a war that has already been won. 

"Sam!" Frodo cried to the stars. "Tell me, I must know, did you give this to me?" Frodo's free hand scrambled to his pocket, and he wrenched his treasure out under Sam's eyes. 

His ring! Sam had all but forgotten it, but seeing it bright in Frodo's palm gave him a thrill of new strength. "The night before we left, I gave it to you. And it's true I didn't mean to, but you needed it, and afterwards I wanted you to have it."

"Hold your words!" Frodo twisted suddenly and his hand slipped free, to his escape. He made to run, perhaps straight into the Sea, his back turned and his cloak flying. 

Sam did not shout though his voice was strong. Nor was he seized by panic for his will was set with determination. 

"_I love you!_" 

* * * *

Frodo stopped and stood still. The wind blew. Frodo began to turn, and Sam spoke fast and light:

"I love you. More than anything else, Frodo dear. And I reckon I always have, but our hard journey brought your soul right up to the surface, as it were, and showed me how shining and lovely you are. How could I not love you, seeing that?"

Upon the wings of a great eagle, Frodo felt he was speeding beyond the moon, too fast to breathe. For a long moment he could but gasp, his hand pressed hard against his chest; now when he most needed to speak he could not force the words out. 

His head fell forward upon Sam's strong shoulder, and Sam held him tight as he shook. 

"It can't be, Sam, it can't be," Frodo whispered in tears. "It's a dream is all, a dream! O, but how can I bear to wake from it?"

"It's no dream," Sam replied softly, patiently stroking his face with his fingertips. "Feel it, it's all true." Carefully he squeezed Frodo's hand, then lifted it to his lips to kiss the gap of his missing finger. Frodo raised his head and stared into Sam's eyes, seeing there the beauty and spirit he had long loved.

"You've always been a work of wonder to me," Frodo said, his voice steadying. "I never tried to stop loving you, I could never do that, but I will not take anything from you! Sam, you are too bright for my heart, I can hardly bear it. I do love you, not merely for all you've done for me, but for what you _are_, for everything. O, Sam! There's a letter, I left it in the Red Book--" 

Sam nodded, flushed and exhilarated. "I found it. I've got it here."

"You--you found it? You've got it? O!" And with a last burst of fighting strength within him, he again held out the ring. "But listen! You must go now, you have to go now. Take this, and go home to Rose and Elanor. It's all right. O! I shall be at peace, and you shall go on, and it will be all right." 

Frodo clumsily tried to pass it safely to Sam's hands, but Sam crossed his arms firmly about his chest. "I gave it to you, Frodo. It's yours."

"Sam, I _can't_."

"Take it, Frodo, please. Keep it with you. Then I'll know you won't forget me, Havens or no. I think it will mean more on your finger than mine, if you follow me..."

As Frodo's tears finally spilled down his face, Gandalf approached them swiftly--too fast, as if danger were swirling down upon them. He dropped to his knees in a way more human than the ancient wizard ever looked, and took Sam's shoulders firmly. His gaze was hard and unrelenting. 

"Samwise Gamgee, what do you mean by this?"

Sam wavered only a little in fright. "He's leaving me," he whispered. And then he shivered as if in pain, and indeed he felt his limbs were sore and a terrible weariness came over him.

"Samwise?" Gandalf said more softly. "Are you in pain?"

"Do not be troubled," a voice said, and all eyes looked up to the wondrous Galadriel, who fixed Sam in her gaze and slowly walked towards him. Gandalf rose and moved aside, reverently, but everyone else kept very still, especially Sam, who felt pinned to the spot. Galadriel came to stand before him, laying her beautiful white hand upon his brown forehead. 

Sam felt as though a great light were entering him, spreading down from where she touched him, and he thought he could hear some kind of whispering inside his head but he did not mind, because it was so gentle and warm. Dimly he realized he had closed his eyes, and when he opened them he looked upon the shining face of the Lady, and he saw two tears slip free down her cheeks. 

"There is black memory in his heart," she said, and let fall her hand from his forehead. "The mark of the Ring is upon him." 

"No, no!" Frodo cried, hiding his face in his hands. "I can't bear it." 

Sam was torn, trying to reach out to Frodo but feeling captivated by Galadriel's eyes. "I've no wound," he said softly. "It's just when he's gone that I feel it." Sam glanced at the host of people who now watched him breathlessly, embarrassed at the attention. "I carried the Ring for just a bit, hardly very long at all, when I thought he was gone from me. It was such a dark thing, and such a cruel time, and I remember it now when he's away."

Galadriel bowed gracefully and kissed his forehead, making Sam blush deeper, and released him from her scrutiny. Turning to Gandalf and Elrond, she said, "He is resilient, but against this his resiliency has not been tested. He could yet fade." 

In shock and silence the company studied the stout little hobbit before them. Sam swallowed and stood a bit taller. "I mean to go with him," he said. "And I'll walk into the Sea to follow him if I can!" 

Gandalf's face softened, and he touched Frodo's tear-stricken cheek, and took up both the hobbits' hands. "Samwise, you were meant to be healed and whole--indeed. You must not be separated, dear hobbits. If you wish it, you shall go with Frodo."

Sam's face lit up with naked joy, but Frodo seemed caught in a net of anguish. "Gandalf! He can't leave Rosie and Elanor. He can't give up his life to follow me."

"You must let him choose for himself," Gandalf admonished him tenderly, "so that he does not watch your ship sail away, begging you not to leave him standing on the shore." 

Afloat in fear and pain, Frodo turned to Sam, awaiting his words with a pounding heart.

Sam looked straight into Frodo's eyes. "I've been wishing for this, for you. I'll not leave you. You deserve the greatest happiness to be had, after all you've done! I've a mind to give it to you." He held out his hands, laying them upon his wounded shoulder. "I've a mind to take your hurts away. I'll chase out the shadows and fill you against emptiness."

Frodo sobbed quietly. "But you will suffer, Sam, for all you are giving up!"

"Rosie has an errand, Frodo, I saw it. I have a feeling she'll do something grand. I already told her what you are to me, and I said I was going to stay in Rivendell until you were healed." Tears bright in his eyes, Sam took Frodo's unresisting left hand, and slipped the ring on his finger. "Don't you understand?" he whispered. "I'm yours, and you're mine. It's the way things are supposed to be. I can't abide being without you, in any case."

Frodo gasped, shuddering. Sam gathered him up in an embrace, simply comforting at first and then changing into something else. Forgetting that there was anyone watching, he stroked the back of Frodo's head, caressing his hair, transfixed by his beautiful eyes and face and body, by every line and shade of him. Hesitantly, like a flower petal in the breeze, Frodo reached out to touch Sam's face, and traced his fine fingers over Sam's mouth. Finally Sam knew he was not afraid. In a single fluid motion they leaned in together to taste each other's lips.

They pressed hard and close, heat rising between them, hands sweeping at each other's waists and backs. 

Frodo cried against his mouth, recognizing these impassioned touches that were born in darkest Mordor and only now breaking free! They could hardly get close enough, hands scrambling to unite in vivid worship of how hard and fast they were bound. Now all would be shared between them. With fierce need Frodo explored Sam's mouth and breathed him deep, then was gentled, yielding to Sam's insistent tongue. 

At length they broke apart, both faces wet with tears. 

"Do you feel that?" Sam whispered as he stroked Frodo's shoulder gently. To Frodo it burned like a lad's finest summer.

"We'll come back," Frodo whispered desperately. "I promise we'll come back. I can't keep you away from the Shire forever. When we've tarried long enough over the Sea, we'll return and help Rose and find peace where we belong."

"There now," Sam whispered and brushed the moisture from Frodo's face. "It's all right. _I love you._"

At that, there was a great thunder as Merry and Pippin rode up in haste. "You tried to give us the slip once before and failed, Frodo!" Pippin said through his tears. "You'll have to say a proper goodbye, now."

But as they dismounted their faces changed, for they could see something had occurred between Frodo and Sam. Sam pressed Frodo's hand and held it, by way of giving him strength. 

"I'm going too," Sam announced, seeing Frodo was too overwhelmed to speak. "I'm going with Frodo over the Sea."

"Cheers!" Merry and Pippin cried, waking Bilbo from a nap. "This is the best news we could hear."

"Yes, yes, it's lovely my lads," Bilbo said. "I'll write a song for you..." but he was already nodding and the verse wasn't forthcoming. 

Frodo wiped his eyes and squeezed Sam's hand, addressing his cousins. "Bag End and the Red Book belong to Rosie, but she may come to you if she finds she doesn't want them." 

"Don't worry, dear cousin. We'll take care of everything. That goes for you too, Sam."

Sam was very much moved, though a great peace was already spreading through his heart. "Rosie guessed I might not come back. But could you lend a hand betimes, and make sure Elanor learns her letters, and knows I love her?"

Merry and Pippin nodded, earnest and tearful.

With that, all words seemed to fail, and the four friends looked wistfully at the silver ship. Gandalf nodded at Elrond, and gracefully the elves began to board. Merry and Pippin threw themselves at Frodo and Sam, and the next few moments were spent in embraces, kisses, and whispered farewells. Then the great sails rolled out and billowed, and a strange new wind brushed over the Travellers' faces. Bilbo was led up onto the ship, humming softly in his sleep. Gandalf turned to Frodo and Sam. 

"It is time, dear friends." 

Sam swallowed. "Sailing, sailing, sailing over the sea...are we really going to do something so beautiful?"

"You and Frodo deserve beauty," Gandalf said. "If there is any beauty in Middle-earth, it is in your debt."

Hand in hand, Sam and Frodo went to the shore, and Gandalf helped them up the step to the little boardwalk. Frodo stopped when they reached the top. 

"It may yet be our fate to see the splendor of the re-born cities," Frodo whispered. "When the light of the Undying Lands fills us both and washes away all shadows, we will cross the Sea once more and set our feet on Middle-earth for a little while, until an end is come of the Fellowship of the Ring. We will walk again through your forests, the trees taller than mountains. And we shall see the King, the greatest and wisest of all rulers; and Merry and Pippin, powerful knights of the City and the Mark. And _Elanor_, Sam, for she will outshine us all, and one day you shall tell your grandchildren of your brave deeds." Frodo gripped Sam's hands very tightly. "It must often be so, Sam, when things are in danger: some one has to give them up, lose them, so that others may keep them. But for all that we have given up, by the grace of this world it may be returned to us. Sam, I believe your ring, _this_ ring, will prove stronger than Isildur's Bane." 

Sam wept and the ship was drawn up from the shore. Frodo reached into his weskit and took out his star-light, and held it out for his friends to see as the ship passed into white mist. Soon the shore was obscured, but still Sam and Frodo stood looking back, arms around each other. Only the falling of night and the birth of stars and wind drew them away, turning in their embrace to face the new horizon and pressing kisses on each other's hands. Gently Frodo set his star-light down upon the ship's stern, for he knew he would never need it again. 

And so it was that the last of the great shadow departed. 

****

THE END


End file.
